


Hide Yourself In Hell

by WatchingTheClock



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, F/M, Long
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21975871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatchingTheClock/pseuds/WatchingTheClock
Summary: The Lannisters and their allies have seized power; at long last they have subdued the wars in Westeros. The war is coming from the East.A famous military mind like Robb Stark would be worth its weight in gold in the coming wars. Shame he died at the Twins.A family like the Tyrells with a marriage to a strong, clever woman like Margaery Tyrell could provide a powerful ally to any invader. If only she hadn't been trapped by the Sparrows.Either way, war is coming and it brings unexpected faces from the past.
Relationships: Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Euron Greyjoy/Cersei Lannister, Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Robb Stark/Daenerys Targaryen, Robb Stark/Margaery Tyrell
Comments: 40
Kudos: 85





	1. First

-R-ob-b-

He grumbled deep in his chest. Rolling out of bed he waited until his feet were firmly planted on the floor before opening his eyes. Sleep filled the corners. Strange he could have sworn he hadn’t slept at all. Could have sworn he lay staring at the ceiling, trying to force memories away and back over the sea.

Sighing and standing, then stretching and sighing once more. 

Scars and injuries hurt all over his body as he stretched they felt like they might tear, they never did though and there was a certain satisfaction gained from testing how far his wounds might stretch. 

Stumbling bleary eyed over the window he threw open the shutters.

The sun was more here. High in its splendor. Brighter than home. The sandy streets and windy corridors which made up the city were pleasant to his foreign eyes. A city was pleasant. He was unused to cities. He had never truly been to one. 

White Harbor maybe, but it compared not.

T’was a pretty place, a peaceful place, far from Kings and clashes, swords and rain. He doubted snows had ever fallen here.

“Mornin’.”

He turned to the bed. The whore he had hired laid supine then feline stretching herself like a cat outwards. Her nude body tanned and smooth on the white linen sheets. 

“Good Morning,” he returned. Turning back to the balcony, smiling with just the corner of his mouth. 

“Why did you call me Talisa last night?” 

“Huh?” He turned back to her.

“Why did you call me Talisa last night?” The whore repeated.

“Did I?” He pretended to sound absent minded. 

“Yeah, right when you finished in me,” she replied with a frankness he was unused to. He was unused to so many things though. If he was willing to embrace a new life he knew the right reaction was just to smirk. Repressing the instinct to be proper and disapproving of such nasty talk. 

“Forget I did,” he replied, closing the shutters a bit so the sun spilled but not poured into the room he had rented. 

“Lord,” she swore, as he sat down next to her and started pulling on his trousers. “I saw ‘em last night, but you’ve been in the wars ain’t cha?” She ran her fingertips over the imperfections on his skin. 

“Hmmm.”

“Where you get ‘em?”

“War.” And weddings he added internally. 

“Not good at it?” She laughed, as she ran her fingers over his scars as if she was tracing a route on a map. 

“I was good at it. Shit at politics,” he said solemnly. “Erm… Thanks, I don’t know the etiquette.”

“Ha! The etiquette of whorin’?”

“That’d be the one,” he replied, now dressed in his plain clothes. Picking up a dagger, the last of his weapons from a previous life, he strapped it to his waist and awkwardly hoisted it around so it was at the base of his spine. 

“Normally gents don’t bother paying for the night, just enough to get off, then they tell the girl to fuck off,” she told him. Standing too and padding slowly around the room, stretching in an enticing manner. Still nude she stood in front of him, looking up with big, dark, brown eyes. She pulled his sleeves tighter. “Strange.”

“What is?” 

“What you paying for girls for? Look at you. Good looking man, real good looking, like a prince or a lord or sumthin..”

“I’m none of those,” he responded sullenly as he quickly crushed cloves and salt together and used it to clean his teeth.

“Not anymore?” She smirked at him.

“Hmm,” he grumbled.

“Go into a tavern and they’ll flock to you, girls in Pentos aren’t as proper as you Westerosi types,” she told him as if he cared. 

“I don’t want a girl from Pentos,” he said walking at last to leave. “Just Volantis.”

“That’s where I’m… Oh, was Talisa from Volantis? That why you wanted me? Men don’t normally want to kiss as much as you did. See you later Rodrick was it? Byeeeee.” 

He paused in the doorway for a second before shaking his head and walking on without replying. His stomach tightening and beads of sweat appearing from the nerves of his past. Feeling the weight of his past crashing down upon him. He shook his head, shook it again like a dog trying to throw off the water from a puddle recently jumped in, trying to free himself from those shackles he created for himself.

“Excuse me,” a hooded and cloaked man paused his exit from the fancy brothel. “I have a letter my lord.”

“I’m not - thanks,” he took the note. Not really thinking, still blearly from the night before. He had been disarmed by his prostitute, so he just took it. The man was gone in that mysterious fashion the Essosi seemed to manage. 

Whatever.

He unfurled it.

Robb Stark,

He furled it again. Scowling to himself. 

Robb Stark,

Welcome to Pentos.

Please accept my invitation for a meeting.

Illyrio.

Illyrio. He knew the name. Even back in Westeros the name of Illyrio Mopatis’ name had found its way to King Robb Stark’s ears. However now he was not King Robb Stark. He was Rodrick the man who hadn’t thought of a fake last name, who was just some knight living in exile. 

“Fuuuuuuck that,” Robb muttered to himself tossing the letter away. He stalked down the streets. He had no aim but he certainly enjoyed the atmosphere of the new that was Pentos and he enjoyed the sensation of having no responsibilities. 

Sitting by the docks Robb drank in the sights of the trading ships pulling into the sun basked harbour. Took in the sight of guards walking by with strangely tipped spears and alien swords. The fashion, the people, the women. Robb had never seen anyone who didn’t have the same skin hue as him before Talisa and now every person was different. 

It was nice here, he decided. 

“A drink?” A server came up to him. The dock bars tried to sell to anyone. There were no permits and strict rules like back home. Not home. Robb corrected himself. He had no home. 

“Iced water please.”

“Coming up.”

Robb fiddled with strange foreign coins. He had few left. 

A different man came with a ceramic cup filled with crushed ice. “A letter my lord,” the man said..

Robb tensed up. Looking at the fellow, he too was hooded and cloaked.

It was the same letter as before. Yet this time gold coins poured out of the sealed envelope. Huh. He did need those. 

Checking over his shoulder the man was gone. 

Of course. 

Robb tossed the letter away. Fuck that, he repeated internally. Of course I couldn’t truly escape, he thought bitterly. Illyrio probably didn’t want him dead. Those hooded men would have knived him to death in some squalid back alley death if he did. Or would he? Robb questioned himself. He knew he was shit at politics. He knew it so maybe he was wrong. He thought Walder Frey - Fuck that. Stop it! He cursed himself. 

Robb sat there at the docks sipping ice water after ice water for hours. Watching the boats come and go, the people move here and there while not really seeing what he was watching. Instead thinking about impossible it was to flee his past. He was tempted to drink but his memory of the wedding at the Twins stopped him. He would never touch alcohol again. 

“Hey.”

Robb snapped his neck upwards. Gods. How long had he been staring out into the middle distance. The sun was past its zenith. 

“Hello,” he replied to the whore he had spent the night with. He almost said wow. Almost. In the bright sun she looked like Talisa. Guilty he acknowledged to himself that she was prettier than Talisa. Long dark hair that looked raven one moment and auburn brown when the sun caught it whipped around him as she sat down next to him. Placing a leg over Robb’s. 

“Wine please,” she sang as the server rushed over. “You?” Robb shook his head. “So staring at boats huh?”

“I -,” Robb snorted a half laugh. “I was yes.”

“Some scary men came to the brothel earlier,” she told him. 

“Oh?” He failed to sound uninterested. 

“Oh?” She laughed, snuggling up to his shoulder like a couple might. Robb almost resisted but… She did look like Talisa. 

“Looking for a Robb Stark? A King in the North?”

“Fuck me.”

“Cost ya.”

He laughed. 

“Thought you were a Roddy was it?”

“Shut up,” Robb mumbled into his iced water. “I don’t know your name.”

“Sapphire.”

“Like I said, I don’t know your name,” he repeated. 

“Maybe you will. So you’re Robb Stark. Knew there was something about you… I never met a dead man who could talk.”

“I didn’t say I was.”

“No but you ain’t denying it are you darling? Nope? Nope! So you are. Anyway, I wouldn’t be so cold to me,” ‘Sapphire,’ teased. 

“Why?”

“I belong to you now.”

“What?” Robb spluttered. He literally did not understand what had just been said. She handed him a fresh note. Again it was from Illyrio Mopatis. He still wanted a meeting. He - wow - he had bought Sapphire on Robb’s behalf, as a gift. “I - I - .”

“Own me.”

“I don’t believe in that… And wait. There are no slaves in Pentos. That’s why I came here.”

“No there aren’t technically but -” She shrugged. “Illyrio.” As if his name alone was enough to explain the unusual situation. “So when you meeting him master?”

“Do. Not. Call. Me. That.” Robb snarled.

“Sir?” He shook his head. 

“Robb?”

He nodded once. Annoyed by the situation.

“So when you meeting him Robb?”

“I’m not, I ran from the name Robb Stark why would I embrace it?” He asked, revealing too much as he did. 

“I don’t know. I’m just a whore.”

“Don’t say that,” Robb scowled. True or not, he simply didn’t want to hear truths which upset him.

“Suppose I’m not anymore. Just property.” 

“Don’t say that please,” Robb pressed. 

“Fiiiine,” she sang happily stretching out with her glass of wine over the bench they were now sharing. “Were you going to come back and see me tonight?” She asked after a very long stretch of silence. 

“Maybe,” Robb answered carefully. Yes was the answer. 

“You can call me Talisa if you like,” she offered. “I mean I haven’t used the name me mother gave me for years.”

“Thanks, but I won’t… Wish I hadn’t let that slip.”

“Aww. Honey.” She rubbed his shoulder, he thought of shrugging her off but didn’t. “We should be excited.”

“We?”

“You own me so yeah we. We are a we now.”

“Please stop pointing that out. Can I free you?” Robb asked. 

“You can, but I’ll still be owned by you. Sorry King Stark but Illyrio is the boss round these parts,” she replied finishing her wine. She signalled for another. “Round a lot of parts.”

“How old are you?”

“15. You?”

“19.”

“Young couple out for adventure,” she sang. 

“We’re not a couple.”

“There are two of us. You own me. You want to fuck me. I want to fuck you. How are we not a couple?” She asked.

“We’ve known each other for two nights,” Robb replied. 

“Long nights… I’m just trying to make the best of the situation.”

“Why?” Robb sighed.

“‘Cause that’s what us common lot do, we make the best and try our hardest. Only you fancy Kings and you fancy Lord sorts can indulge in introspection and self-hatred. The luxury of your position allows it. We have to keep going, keep providing for ourselves, you lot have money and safety and can let your minds fester,” she explained. Explained in a way that shocked Robb with her insight. “Besides aren’t you? Wouldn’t you have just committed suicide if you had no hope?”

“Fair enough,” Robb nodded. “How did you know half those words? Actually never mind, but fair enough.”

“Yay!” Sapphire clearly being sarcastic celebrated before rolling her eyes. “Come on.” She stood and held out her hand for him to take. He scowled and looked at her confused. “Let’s see Illyrio.”

“No.”

“Come ON!” She took his hand without him offering and tried to yank him up. Unfortunately a 85lb girl couldn’t lift his frame an inch. “Come on Robb.”

“I don’t want to see him.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“Still the answer is no.”

“Lord. Fine, well… Wanna go fuck?”

Obviously yes.

***

It probably wasn’t right. It probably wasn’t what a man ought to do with a whore. Yet Robb couldn’t resist.

He slid down between her legs. Where he just had fucked her in every position he knew and several she seemingly created. It didn’t matter if she was a whore. She looked like Talisa. She - She was… She - 

Don’t think about it.

Just do it.

He slowly ran his face through her folds. His nose rubbing over her clit. Pushing the tip of his nose over her clit. She moaned. Moaned as he very tentatively ran her tongue around her pussy, not quite touching it. Just giving the hint of intimacy. 

“Stop teasing me,” she whined. Grabbing his head and pushing it into her. Robb had all his curls and auburn locks shaved off, so ‘Sapphire,’ was able to grasp his neck and hold his head in her legs. “There Robb.” She moaned as he took her clit in her mouth. Sucking and swiping his tongue left and right, up and down and what he hoped was random enough. ‘Sapphire,’ writhed and rolled under her. Her legs tightening and wrapping themselves around his head. 

As she writhed and moaned Robb tried to push his hand under her leg and slide two of his fingers inside her. As he sucked and licked at her he pushed his fingers in and out, curling them as he went.

‘Sapphire,’ looked like she was having a fit. He could barely keep his mouth to her pussy with her jerking motions but did by holding her down with her spare hand over her stomach.

Warm and sweet liquid filled Robb’s mouth as Sapphire’s motions stopped in one quivering spasm. 

“Lord,” she swore as her spasms slowed and she tensed her toes slowing, curling and uncurling them. A pleased yet strangely concentrated look on her face. Her eyes closed, she sighed contently. “I - I haven’t had that done to me before.”

“Really?” Robb shifted up the bed rolling her onto her side, he fitted into her back and reached between her legs. That made him sad. The girl had just been used hadn’t she? 

“Well yeah, with a - a -phew,” ‘Sapphire’s breath hitched as he slid his cock inside her slowly. “By a girl, not a man.”

“Don’t tell me that,” Robb growled. “I’ll embarrass myself. In a second.”

She tittered quietly before moaning softly. Leaning her head back into his Robb letting him nuzzle her neck, kissing, biting and licking the sensitive strip of skin. He was making love to a whore. He wasn’t fucking her. Or treating her badly. This was sweet and sensitive… But she looked like - 

“Fuck Robb.”

“Talisa,” he mumbled without thinking.

Robb liked the way ‘Sapphire’s’ body writhed back into him. The way when she finished she ground her hips back onto him. Moaning with her eyes closed and bit down on her lip. 

She writhed and writhed under him. Robb pulled himself out of her and pushed her onto her back.

“Talisa…” He absent-mindedly mumbled again. 

“Sira.”

“What?” He asked confused as he reached down to put himself back inside her. 

“My name is Sira.”

***

Two more letters arrived while Robb was dozing off during the afternoon. As Sira was curled around his body sleeping deeply. He ran his fingers, lightly as he could manage, over her body as he opened the letter. The same as before. An invitation from Illyrio Mopatis.He sighed. 

Throwing the letter away he stood up and walked to a basin. He washed himself the best he could.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “I’ll have to see him won’t I?” Talking to himself. Robb turned to look at ‘Sapphire,’ no. Sira. Sira, was spread like a cat over the sheets. He smiled to himself before cursing himself in the next instant. She was more attractive than Talisa he told himself again, guilt washing over him. 

Fuck.

He got dressed and started scrawling a note before stopping half way through. It was unlikely she could read. 

Robb started towards Illyrio Mopatis’ compound. It was easy to find. Everyone knew where it was. A famous part of Pentos. The guards were a queer mix of Norvos warrior priests, Unsullied and Dothrakhi Bloodriders. It would take a lot of money and influence to gather such an eclectic mix of guards. 

“Robb Stark,” He introduced himself to the guardsmen at the gates. They just nodded and gave him entrance. Strangely no one accompanied him as Robb made his way into the opulent - well palace really. The high walls were made of marble… The cost alone must have been more money the entire Kingdom of the North could muster. Peacocks strutted through impeccably maintained gardens. 

“My dear boy!” 

Robb approached the fattest motherfucker he had ever seen. Lord Manderly looked svelte compared to this tub of blubber. 

Lounging out in his gardens on a recliner this giant beast of a fellow rolled himself up a little on his cushions to wave to Robb. His beard and hair were dyed and tinted blonde and his sweaty body was covered in expensive yet gaudy golden chains. 

“Come sit, sit. Wine?” 

“No thank you,” Robb said carefully as he sat opposite Illyrio outside of the mansion house itself. 

Slaves held grapes and wine and fans for their master. True, slaverly might have been illegal here in Pentos but money could buy you everything it seemed. 

“Thank you for coming Lord Stark, I thought you may have been more resistant.”

“Why would you think that?” Robb asked. He was tempted to ask how the man knew his name. Knew that after a month of whoring and moping in Pentos under the false name of Rodrick he had been discovered so easily. 

“Well because you were murdered at your own wedding,” Illyrio shrugged, not looking at Robb but looking leviciously at the slave girl feeding him individual grapes. “Fled Westeros and abandoned your name. How long have you spent wandering aimlessly?! Avoiding finding a new life.”

“Fair point,” he mumbled.

“Ha! I would have presumed you more petulant and abrasive,” the Magister laughed. “Heard you were so inclined. Much has transpired since ‘20,000 Northerners coming South to see if Tywin Lannister shits gold?’” 

“Had such arrogance stabbed out of me,” Robb muttered.

“I can imagine. However you didn’t have your military intellect stabbed out of you by the Freys did you? Hah? No is the answer. That is why I wanted to speak to you Lord Stark. You are rather formidable at the head of an army… Provided you don’t do politics yourself.”

“I don’t have an army.”

“I’ll give you one,” he shrugged as an army was no problem to conjure. “For a favour of course.”

“An army?”

“Yes. Well not give it to you, but put you high up in it, have you heard of the Golden Company?” He asked. Robb nodded. “Well I have friends leading the thing. I’ll make you head of their cavalry. 1000 Heavy horse. 500 light. 500 missiles I hear.” Illyrio said slurping in the most disgusting way from a golden goblet filled to the brim with wine. 

“You seem sure that I’ll say yes.”

“What else will you do?”

Illyrio Mopatis left his question hanging for a long time. Robb tried to think of a decent reply but he had nothing. 

“How long have you spent trying to kill time? Too long? You are bored no? You wish to think you can move on but your mind lives in your old life does it not?” Illyrio had seen the measure of him easily it would seem. 

“Well I guess I’m somewhat indebted to you,” Robb finally came up with a pathetic response. It was all he had to say. Unable to think of anything clever. 

“Are you? Oh the whore, yes. Looks like your dead wife no? Perhaps I shouldn’t press. That would not be my only gift Robb. Here,” Illyrio gave his gaudy goblet to a slave and clapped his hands twice in quick, pretentious succession. An armoured man came over holding a long velvet bag. “Take it.”

Robb stood and took the bag. Reaching inside Robb pulled free a bastard sword. A very light bast-

“This is Blackfyre,” he breathed almost dropping the thing. It should not even be.

“Tis.”

Robb held up the Valyrian steel sword. The crossguard had two roaring dragon heads facing outwards. Rubies emblazoned for eyes and silver for the teeth. It was a gorgeous weapon. A deadly weapon. 

“Tis yours,” Illyrio beamed at him. The smile was meant to be friendly but was creepy. 

“The price?”

“Go meet my contact in the Golden Company, Griff is the chap’s name, meet him talk to him, lead their cavalry and fight with them.”

“Against whom shall I be fighting?”

“Does it matter? Aren’t you bored?”

“I need to know who I’m fighting,” Robb replied. 

“The enemies of Daenerys Targaeryn.”

***

“This is so nice, I ain’t used to stuff like this,” Sira padded nude around the cabin Robb had been given. It was nicer than anything he had been used to either. Mahogany and gold leaf. A double bed, couch, a small kitchen and several wardrobes. She walked up behind him where he sat at the desk. Reading over the instructions Illyrio had given him. “What does that say?”

“A lot of shit I wish I hadn’t agreed to,” Robb grumbled. Sira wrapped her arms around his shoulder and leaned her head next to his, nudging him with the side of her head. “It says I’m meeting some guy named Griff. He apparently is also running from a lost war in Westeros.”

“Who do you think he is?”

“Someone from the War of the Ninepenny Kings maybe, Jon Connington, a liar, Lord Bloodraven? Who knows,” Robb shrugged. “I’ve agreed to fight for the daughter of King Aerys.”

“So?”

“So King Aerys burnt my grandfather alive.”

“She didn’t.”

“No, I suppose she didn’t,” Robb conceded. “I don’t know why I’ve agreed to this. I’m meant to be… Erm…”

“Rodrick,” Sira laughed letting go of Robb’s shoulders and padding over to the bed. “Rodrick the handsome whore monger.”

“Right, that,” he laughed. “I’m so shitty at being inconspicuous.”

“What does that mean? What?! This isn’t my first tongue.”

“Bad at hiding.”

“You’re a good fuck though… Robb? Robbbbbbbbb?” She sang. He turned from the desk and his letters to see Sira on their bed, her legs spread and her fingers spreading the lips of her vagina apart. He growled in frustration, standing up he padded over the bed. “Hiiiiii,” she smiled super broadly as he sank down on top of her. 

***

Robb disliked Harry Strickland immediately. The fat, pompous man was friendly enough, and gave Robb the impression that he rather liked him. The man pontificated about how impressive his mercenary company of runaways was. For a bit. Then he bragged about his own leadership and his own successes. 

Despite his misgivings Harry gave Robb command of the cavalry. As Illyrio had said he would. The Golden Company were boarding ships. Joining the one Robb himself came on. Then sailing to Mereen. Illyrio Mopatis was able to conjure not only an army but a navy too. Robb never really had a choice saying yes to the merchant’s invitation. No man so powerful could be denied. 

Back on his own ship was when Robb at last got his meeting with this Griff character.

The man had strange blue dye in his hair. A poor job had been done, with red roots showing underneath. Robb had considered dying his hair too when he arrived in exile in Essos yet decided shaving his scalp bald would be a wiser decision. Running a hand over his now lightly stubble covered crown he did not regret his choice seeing this older man’s ginger roots. 

“You’re Rodrick?”

“No.”

“You’re Robb Stark?”

“Aye,” Robb replied as Griff barged his way into Robb’s chambers with a bluster which made Robb instantly dislike the man. Sira luckily was dressed for once. 

“Leave.”

“Don’t talk to her like that,” Robb snapped on instinct. 

“It’s fine,” Sira kissed his cheek and left past an unimpressed Griff. 

“Thought you would have learned your lesson Stark, haven’t women got you in trouble before?”

“Fuck off,” Robb snarled, his hand falling to Blackfyre. Taking an instant dislike to the man. His mind flashed back to that meeting at Winterfell. When he had first called his banners and his father’s bannermen talked to him like some meek child, the thought got his blood up and his temper flared. 

“Cut me down then boy.”

“I could.”

“You could,” he agreed, “I’m past my prime, but I don’t need to respect a man who got his guts stabbed out, and his whole family murdered over a woman and then instantly falls an even less impressive girl.”

“You’re making a lot of assumptions. I simply stopped you from being a bour.”

“I - Fair enough boy.”

Boy… Robb’s mind flashed back to Jaime Lannister, covered in his own shit, trying to taunt him from the muddy floor of his prison pen. Anger washed over him. 

“We are here for the same purpose.”

“Are we?” Robb laughed. “I don’t know who you are but you know me. I’ve been told the bare minimum and I suspect soon all these easy smiles, nice words, and promises and fancy gifts will be cashed in. Then I will be in a position I have stumbled into and will have to act on behalf of others due what I owe.”

“That is probably true. Got something better to do?” Griff sneered.

“No, I don’t,” Robb sat down at his desk. He held his head in his hands. “Fuck me.”

“Look son, I know what it is like to leave Westeros in shame, leaving naught but dead friends and smug enemies behind you, but you can either drink yourself to death or get on with something.”

“Going to tell me who you are?”

“No.”

“Going to tell me what we’re doing?”

“No.”

“Going to be nicer?”

“No, so you with us Cavalry captain?”

“Fucking yes, fuck,” Robb sighed. 

“Good.”

Griff went to leave his contempt palpable. 

“Hey, call Sira back,” Robb ordered the man.

“I’m already here,” Sira came in the moment Griff opened the door. 

“Stark,” Griff went to leave.

“Wait!”

“What?” He turned.

“Apologise to Sira,” Robb ordered. 

“Fuck off,” Griff grumbled.

“Apologise or I won’t help.”

“Yeah right,” Griff snorted.

“I mean it, say sorry for disrespecting a lady.”

“She isn’t a lady.”

“She is with me and I was Lord of Winterfell that makes her a lady by proxy, so say sorry Griff or I will just go off into exile,” Robb threatened. He had no idea why he was pushing this so hard but he had committed now to gaining some small win off this man. “And toss Blackfyre into the Narrow Sea.”

“You - You - I - Fine. Fucking fine, I apologise for my crassness girl.”

“Thank you my lord,” Sira sang back smiling broadly at the scowling old man, she did the worst attempt at curtsey Robb had ever seen. Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh. He almost spat with rage before storming off. Sira came over back to the desk and sat on Robb’s lap. “Oh my hero, defending me,” she placed a sarcastic hand to her forehead and mock swooned over him.

“Shut up,” he moaned. 

“I appreciate it, no one has ever done that for me, but it were stupid of you,” she kissed his cheek. “It were proper stupid.”

“I know. Yet I like him not and I like rudeness even less.”

“I bet you’ll be friends by the end,” Sira told him. He didn’t argue. Robb knew one thing. He didn’t know anything.

* * *

-M-arg-erg-y-

The Queen had pleaded with the High Sparrow he didn’t listen. The man was naught but fanaticism dressed up in the rags of the false martyr. 

“Cersei isn’t coming!” Margaery repeated, her voice did mean to come out hysterical but it did. 

The High Sparrow just looked at her blankly. He had thought that Cersei Lannister was coming. The fact that she wasn’t just didn’t make sense in his head. Only what he planned and believed he could deal with if it veered from what the High Sparrow thought he just could not understand. So Cersei’s absence was making him malfunction.

“Loras!” Margaery ran over to her freshly mutilated brother. He was in the arms of two of those vile sparrows. “Loras. We need to get out here! We have to now.”

Loras just looked at her blankly. 

“Loras we’re going to die here. I’m going to die here!” She pleaded with her brother. “Loras! For me you need to save me!” She grabbed him by the lapels and dragged him from the grasp of the sparrows.

The two fanatics just grabbed her brother back. The blood from the sign of the seven carved into his head seeped down his cheeks. Loras finally looked back at his sister.

“Loras. I. Do. Not. Want. To. Die!” Margaery begged. 

Loras looked down at the ground. Sighed. 

Margaery thought that was it. Nothing would happen.

Except no.

Loras sprung to action. Turning on his heel in on swift motion he freed himself from his two captors. Punching one and taking the mace from the other. Loras caved both men’s skulls in. Sudden and brutal. 

“Come on,” Loras grabbed his sister’s hand and started dragging her up through the throngs of terrified courtiers. Loras struck down any Sparrow in their way. He fought like a madman. He would be the Jaime Lannister, the Ser Arthur Dayne of his generation if these freaks hadn’t stolen that from him. Up to the top of the Sept of Baelor the ground beneath their feet started rumbling. Loras tore open the heavy, ornate doors and shoved Margaery through them. 

“Loras?” Margaery turned as she got out onto the steps where Jaime Lannister had rode his white horse in his failed attempt to save her. 

Loras gave her one look, one last look, blood pouring from his forehead into his eyes. Before shutting the doors behind him and locking her out. She heard his final battle roar it was soul splitting.

Margaery wanted to stay and she wanted to run. She ran. Down the stairs. Hoisting her skirts the ground was rumbling. She kept going clearing the stairs, she fell. Tumbling down on her knees, scraping skin free as the ground exploded behind her. 

Margaery saw green, a lot of bright green flames. Then black. Then nothing.


	2. Second

-R-ob-b-

Ravens brought the news to the ships nearly daily. News from the North and from the West. It appeared Captain Strickland wished to stay informed. 

Robb avoided them like the pale horse. He didn’t want to know what land the Lannisters had conquered. What misery the Boltons were bringing down on the North. He knew his brother Jon was Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch and any day now, if it had not happened already the news would come some knife paid for by the Dreadfort ended his life. So he kept his mind on the ship.

The men were pretty receptive to him. He had been apprehensive to begin with. Yet he realised soon that these people were all like him. Soldiers fleeing from politics who just knew war. 

“Robb!” 

His sleeve was grabbed and a very excited Sira pulled him up onto the deck. 

“What?” He asked, following. 

“Valyria!” She shouted over her shoulder as she took the stairs from under deck to the surface 3 at a time. “Look,” she grabbed his sleeve and yanked him up. “Come on!” She was so excited that it was infectious as he too broke into a jog.

The sailors and soldiers shared this enthusiasm. The deck was rammed as their armada saw the smoke, the grey and brown smoke rising on the horizon. 

“Wow,” Robb mumbled as smokey ruins of stone and former glory, broken by the power of nature and the world itself was revealed in the distance.

“I know right,” Sira sang, taking his hand nuzzling up into his shoulder. He didn’t really think about it, he just put his arm around her and watched as the smoking remnants of a past. Her joy and sense of wonder was extremely contagious. 

“You,” Griff came to join them. Robb saw the old man look at his arm wrapped around Sira and scowl. “Your armour has been brought below. It’s by your cabin.”

“I’ll go down soon,” Robb waved him off. 

“Hmmm, I want you to meet my son,” Griff said. “Young Griff.”

“Original name,” Robb sneered. Sira tittered. He felt the hatred towards her glowing off of Griff.

“Well Rod-ri-ck,” Griff sneered right back, “I’m sure you and Sapphire here are experts in originality.”

“Father, no need for such aggression. Rodrick and I will be fast friends I am sure,” a well built, but not tall young man joined them. He was almost handsome, if it weren’t somewhat ferret-like features. His hair was dyed and his appearance was not quite what it ought to be. “A pleasure my lord Stark,” Young Griff whispered the last two words. Robb took his hand without letting go of Sira. “A pleasure my lady,” he bowed for Sira and kissed her hand. 

“Greetings,” Robb said cautiously. He noticed despite the easy smile and welcoming gait this Young Griff had glanced at Blackfyre on Robb’s hip a good three times in less than a minute. 

“I understand your reservations, my father has a gruffness to him, years in exile you see,” the young man continued. He spoke with a courtly manner. Yet a courtly manner that has been practiced from books and not actual court. Ought replaced what was and should be. 

“Fine, a pleasure,” Robb said. “However we would like to see the sight of Old Valirya perhaps we could speak later.”

“Certainly. Such a sight does naught but upset me, I shall leave it to you,” Young Griff bowed and left with his disdainful father.

“I don’t like them,” Sira whispered not looking away from the Horizon.

“Me neither.”

“Father like son.”

“They aren’t that either.”

***

“You look AMA-ZING!” Sira was dancing about him, her consistent joy was truly infectious. 

What she had said about rich men like him being afforded the luxury of misery induced self-reflection had really hit home. Her life had definitely been harder than his yet she was always positive. 

He looked in the mirror. 

The golden plate armour covered his shoulders, arms, neck and part of his stomach and chest. It wasn’t quite as protective as the Westerosi plate he was used to. The thin golden dyed mail underneath would stop a glancing blow but a lance would - he sighed. Beggars can’t be choosers. 

“It doesn’t cover a lot of me,” Robb complained. As Sira stood around him and fussed with the ties and toggles. Tutting at his complaints. “Glancing blows sure but - it seems flimsy.”

“Well cover yourself in steel like back home and you’ll block an axe then sweat yourself into a humiliating grave,” Sira teased. “See how that goes for you Robb.”

“Fine, Sira, fine,” he sighed. Hoisting everything around himself. Looking one last time. “It’ll do.”

“You have that sword, that’ll make up the difference.”

“Hmm,” Robb growled. Blackfyre looked wrong on his hip now he was clad in golden armour. It was a dark smokey relic of a previous era held in place on the most gaudy, shiny clothing possible. 

“If you hate them take ‘em off,” Sira smiled at him, kissing him lightly before biting his lip painfully, dragging his bottom lip hard from him. Before smiling and winking and disappearing behind him. “What?” She shrugged as her clothes found their way to the floor. “I don’t know how to play cyvasse. How else will we pass the time?”

“Hmmm,” he growled deeper. 

There was a knock at the door just as Robb’s armour hit the floor. 

“Fucking fuck sake,” he growled once more climbing off his - well whatever she was. 

The door opened. 

“Land ahoy, Cavalry Captain.”

“Thank you,” Robb closed the door. 

“Meereen? Wow never thought I’d get all the way out here.”

“Showing you the world,” Robb joked. 

“Aww baby, you know how to treat a lady right.”

“No I don’t,” he replied sadly. “Guess I’ll try to get better with you..”

“Uh-huh,” she smirked, padding over to him. That feline walk transfixing his gaze. “thanks master.”

“Fuck off - hmmmm.”

“Ha, come here, take off your pants.”

***

Robb walked in his golden armour, with Blackfyre strapped to his hip with Harry Strickland, the commander. Griff, the infantry commander. Black Balaq the archer commander. Up the steps of the great pyramid of Mereen. 

“You are now in the presence of Daenerys Targaeryn, first of her name, the breake-”

Robb zoned it out. The pompous titles he cared little for. However his surroundings took his breath away. He wished he could have brought Sira up with him, she would appreciate such a view. The golden idol on top of the pyramid cast a dark shadow on them as they passed into the chamber of the Queen. 

“Thank you for coming Captain Strickland,” a very posh, upper class Westerosi voice spoke. Robb glanced up. Daenerys. The daughter of the man who destroyed his family, who set Westeros on such a terrible path of self-destruction was - was - gorgeous. Dammit. Maybe I am a fool Robb thought. You’ve clearly completely fallen for Sira, like you did Talisa, you even thought about marrying Jeyne Poole once you twat, he chastised himself. Yet she was gorgeous. 

“Your grace,” Harry bowed.

Robb, Griff and Balaq did the same. 

“Introduce your friends,” the Queen spoke with a supercilious amusement. Robb liked it not. There were two Westerosi either side of her. Two old knights. Robb knew them not. 

“My Queen. This man goes by the name Griff but you should know him by his true name: Lord Jon Connington,” Harry said.

“What?” Robb couldn’t help himself. Everyone looked at him and he held his hands up in meek surrender. You are not Lord, nor King Stark. Shut up. “Sorry.”

“Lord Jon Connington, a loyal man to your father. This is Black Balaq the greatest archer the world has ever seen -”

“That will remain to be seen,” The Queen snarked back.

“As your majesty wishes. Finally our cavalry captain. Erm - “ Harry Strickland turned to Robb and shrugged. “Rod was it no… Erm - Roderick?”

“Rodrick,” Robb corrected.

“You,” Daenerys pointed at Robb. Her father killed your grandfather, he thought as he walked bitterly forth. “Your name.”

“Rodrick, your grace.”

“Your true name,” she replied coldly. 

I have your family sword, Robb thought bitterly.

“I am Rodrick my Queen, the cavalry captain.”

“Yet not until recently were you such,” she countered. She knew he was lying and was being aggressive in turn. “Your true name.”

“May I ask a question, your grace?” Robb shot back.

“Answering a question with a question is the height of rudeness.”

“I wouldn’t call it the height of rudeness,” Robb snapped back. The Unsullied guards tensed up at his tone. It was foolish behaviour but in his mind he could see were green flames and his grandfather’s face melting.

“I like this man not,” the Queen glowered at him.

“I simply wished for a question your grace.”

“Shall I remove and execute him,” an Unsullied soldier step forth.

“Perhaps Grey Worm, let him ask his question then perhaps.”

“Do you think it was right for Aerys Targaeryn to burn Lord Rickard Stark alive?” Robb asked.

“No!”

The instant, snap, fury of reply shocked him.

“No! It was gross and vile and… No it was beyond all which is decent and beyond all - No it was wrong ‘cavalry captain,” Daenerys furrowed her brow. She had become angry all of a sudden and animated. He believed her, -though you believed plenty of lies in the past. “Why would you possibly ask me that?”

“Because I’m Robb Stark.”

The air was sucked from the room. Life sucked from the room. The once confident and all commanding Queen looked unable to act. 

“Your father -” The Queen began.

“Fought for his dead father, dead brother and sister who was kidnapped and then died, after being raped!” Robb shot back. The Unsullied guards had very slowly started encroaching on his personal space. How could he run from his past when his past was so much faster than him. 

“Wait - Robb Stark is dead,” she shook her head and turned to look at her equally confused advisors.

“Your grace,” Griff stepped forward, “please allow me?”

Daenerys seemed wrong footed but she nodded to give permission for him to carry on.

“Your grace Lord Stark here, his father beat me, destroyed me and threw me from my home yet I hold no grudge. Neither against the father nor against the son. That is all I wish to say.” He bowed and walked to his position. 

“Lord Stark!” 

“Tyrion Lannister,” Robb couldn’t believe the face he saw appear by this Targaeryn’s side. 

“You two know each other,” Daenerys asked. 

“Yes your grace, my bro-- sorry, my sister had his brother crippled yet Lord Stark did not hold that against me and treated me as an individual. After knowing what my family members did to his, he still gave me hospitality,” Tyrion just flat out lied to his Queen. Robb remembered being pretty hostile to Tyrion when he was acting Lord of Winterfell.

“Why?”

“Because he - “ Robb paused. He wasn’t a good liar. He hated lying but hatred of lying had got him killed. “He didn’t wrong me, he is a decent man, his family’s crimes aren’t his.”

“Fair words, I must say your grace if you allow me,” the old knight next to Daenerys spoke up. “Lord Stark was a great man. You should be friends with the Starks.”

“Ser Barristan,” the Queen smiled at him. Ser Barristan. The fuck was this? The bad memories room? “I trust your words but Ser Jorah may say different.”

“No I would not, my Queen,” the other slightly less old knight spoke. “I sold people in slaverly Eddard Stark was right to wish me dead.” Ser Jorah too? Did people not actually die? They just ended up in Essos? Robb wanted to glance around to see if Jon Arryn or Stannis Baratheon were lurking in the shadows.

“Seems my advisors like you Lord Stark.”

“I’m a likeable sorta chap your grace,” Robb snarked back. 

She smiled at him. He had been expecting anger.

“Very well. Captain Strickland thank you for your allegiance. I, Queen Daenerys Targaeryn, humbly accept your friendship.”

“Our word is as good as gold your grace,” Harry Strickland bowed.

“I haven’t paid you.”

“No, your grace, but our services have been paid for,” Harry bowed, as did Robb, Griff (or Jon he supposed) and Balaq. 

“Fuckin’ Illyrio,” Robb grumbled as they began to leave. Bloody cheese merchant could have told him of Lord Connington. 

“Illyrio Mopatis?” The Queen asked.

“Ignore Lord Stark my Queen,” Harry said.

“You have great hearing,” Robb mumbled.

“Part of being a ruler,” she replied.

“Wish I knew that, perhaps I would have saved myself from those knives,” Robb shot back bitterly.

There was a tense pause in the room, broken by the Queen’s laugh.

“We’ll talk later, Lord Stark, I wish to hear how you ended up here.”

“Your grace,” Robb, for reasons he could never explain, made a large sarcastic bowing gesture. Clearly taking the piss. She just viewed with passive bemusement like he was a child. 

“Thank you captains, lords, thank you.”

* * *

-M-arg-erg-y-

Margaery had not remembered waking up. She had not remembered anything past getting out of those giant doors at the Sept of Baelor. Not rolling in the dirt, not passing out in her own sickness. Well no, that she remembered, a rich pampered girl who was once Queen for all of half a year could remember lying in her own brown, sticky vomit. An indignity that WOULD NOT HAPPEN AGAIN.

She opened her eyes.

She knew where she was - 

Ow. 

Her head was throbbing. Like she had - well she had just survived an explosion. 

This was her bedroom back home in Highgarden. She had not seen the place since her family had left with their banners to meet Renly for that marriage. Yet it was as familiar as familiar could be. She had been here since she was a child. 

Margaery stretched out and got herself from bed. 

Dressing and leaving the room the guards all bowed their heads in solemn respect. Why? Oh. Margaery almost fell off her own feet. Her brother. Dead.

Her mother…

Dead.

Father.

Dead.

House Tyrell.

Dead.

“My lady?”

“Dickon Tarly? What are you doing here?” Margaery asked, as the handsome, yet boring as hell son of Randyll Tarly helped her up from her collapsed state. 

“Your grandmother called the banners my lady - I’m sorry about what happened to your family, I’m sorry, I can’t imagine,” Dickon shook his head. “My father was terrible to my elder brother, I loved him so much and my father sent him away, but at least he is still alright out there somewhere - I can’t… Probably should shut up shouldn’t I?”

“Please my Lord.”

“I’m no Lord yet my Lady, come, your grandmother has summoned us all.”

She rested her arm in the crook of Dickon’s. The cold steel of his armour almost stung her warm flesh. Trying to piece back together the horror which had befallen her in King’s Landing. 

“How did I get here?” She asked.

“We don’t know,” Dickon replied. “Sorry, my lady, but you just appeared on a peasant’s cart, weak and barely clinging to life. I know no more.”

“Thank you Ser.”

“MARGAERY!” Olenna Tyrell’s cane was forgotten as the wizened old woman leapt to her feet the moment she and Dickon entered her father’s old chambers. Her grandmother came storming over to her and hugged her tightly. “You are safe. You are alive,” she pinched Margaery’s cheeks with each hand as if making sure she was corporeal. “Thank the gods.”

“Is everyone dead?” She asked, knowing the answer. She just got a nod. It was enough. Tears threatened to break through.

“Now reunions are out of the way,” Randyll Tarly spoke from the corner of the room. “We need to speak of the Reach’s future.”

“Give them a moment man,” Lord Redwyne spoke up. Tears had clearly fallen down his cheeks. Margaery’s heart pranged for the man. He had always been her father’s best friend. 

“We need to act!” Tarly turned on him.

“But if we forget our decency then who are we?” Lord Hightower asked kindly. Always the peacemaker. 

“I’m fine Grandmother. My Lords,” I lied. 

“Good. Good. Right gents, let’s get to business,” Olenna conducted the meeting.

“What business would that be my Lady?”

“That is what we are here to decide, yet ‘tis a safe bet the business will be bloody.”

* * *

-R-ob-B-

“Is she prettier than me?” Sira asked as Robb got dressed in finery to meet with the woman whose father burned his family. He frowned and turned to her with a questioning look on his face. “What?” She shrugged, “I’m a little jealous, I can’t compete with a Queen.”

“You’re competing?” He asked neutrally.

“Lord Robb Stark, the King of Winter,” she replied. “Daenerys Stormborn, the dragon Queen.”

Sira held her hands out as if balancing a scale and found her hands even.

“Lord Robb Stark, the King of Winter, Sira, Sapphire, some whore,” she replied sullenly. Weighing her hands and finding that her name in her left hand dipped rather a lot lower than his name in her right hand. 

“Oh you’re only a little jealous?” Robb laughed. 

“No… Well a little bit.”

“That’s adorable, I suspect I might have to talk myself out of an execution.”

“As long as you don’t flirt your way out of an execution,” Sira ordered.

“Yes mi’lady,” Robb winked from the doorway.

“See you soon.”

The sadness in her voice made his heart convulse. He stalked back into the cabin and scooped Sira up in his arms. She giggled, tittered even. Her giddiness was almost aromatic to him. Dropping her on the bed he kissed her so hard their teeth clicked. She moaned into his mouth as he broke apart.

“I’ll be back soon.”

“Grrr, fuck, get back soon,” she growled. “Please.” 

“Don’t!” He called over his shoulder as he glanced at her undressing and spreading her body over the sheets. Enticing him with her form. “Fuck sake. You truly are an idiot.”

“On that we can agree,” Griff joined him.

“My Lord.”

“I’m not that,” he turned his head in embarrassment. “Neither are you and you weren’t until - you are a fool for revealing yourself.”

“Your identity was secret to me and no one else would appear,” Robb countered. 

“‘Tis a secret to all but who needs to know, you gave yours away cheaply, look!” Jon Connington grabbed Robb by the shoulders and pushed him against a wall. “Look! I am on your side, Stark.”

“I know. You defended me. My gallant hero.”

“Yet still this attitude,” Connington released him. 

“Are you surprised?”

“No. No. Losing a battle to your father was my shame, but the shame was brought upon me by Aerys. Your shame was being too honourable, you’re a good man Stark and I’m trying to help you. I’m trying to stop you from walking into the next set of knives.”

“Are you?”

“Yes! Fool,” Connington spit. “Go see the Dragon Queen. Go tell her whatev- Well you’ll - I suspect you’re going to taunt her and be too proud. Don’t be. Pride got your mother, child and wife murdered. Just be smart. Pride and honour are great things but not if they make innocents suffer.”

“I - Right,” Robb ran a hand over his shaved scalp. “You’re right. Thanks my Lord.”

“My Lord.”

“My Lord.”

“My Queen,” Robb bowed low, it may have been slightly sarcastic how low he bowed but not perceptibly. 

“A sarcastic bow, how quaint,” Daenerys smirked at him it wasn’t a friendly smile. She was at the top of the grand staircase which lead to the throne of Mereen. Robb at the bottom. “So Lord Stark.” She stood and started walking down the stairs. Slowly. It was an act. Robb saw through it immediately. He knew how it felt to have to act like a ruler when one was yet to see their twentieth birthday. 

“Your grace,” Robb bowed again, even lower, definitely being insubordinate. 

“Ha! Do you - no I suppose after what happened at the Twins I can not threaten you. What you threaten a man with? A man whose unborn child was cut out in front of him?” Daenerys asked with a questioning smile; it was a cruel smile. She is a Targaeryn he supposed. 

Her taunt worked not.

It would have gotten his blood up once, perhaps, not definitely, but as she said, he was a walking dead man. 

“I like disrespect not Lord Stark,” she told him.

“Just Robb your grace,” he replied. “I am Lord of nothing. Even my cabin is rented on a favour.”

“Even the girl in it I hear is rented on a favour.”

“Even her,” he said back immediately. He knew the Queen had spies. He had played the Game of Thrones unlike her and despite losing had learned lessons. He had just thought Sira wasn’t important enough to be spied on. Robb knew there was a threat there, ‘we can hurt the girl to hurt you,’ was the implication. 

“Your father - Well we know what he did,” she changed tone suddenly. 

“And why he did it,” Robb shot back.

“True but that doesn’t stop the fact my family’s legacy was destroyed does it,” she scowled at him again. “Ser Barristan tells me naught but good things about your father, about you. He thinks you and Lord Connington are now our greatest allies… The man seemed positively giddy talking about House Stark.” The Queen said walking slowly around him. Robb stood still. Allowing the Queen to slowly 360 him. “Ser Jorah Mormont, who has every reason to loathe your family has naught but good things to say.”

“That’s nice.”

“You don’t appreciate their support?” She stopped on her heel in front of him and cocked her eyebrows. 

“I do, however having had much support over the years I only can count on it when stress tests and fractures the need of support.”

“That…” She trailed off.

She stopped and frowned.

“I may need you,” she finally spoke. “My closest advisor said so. TYRION!”

The dwarf appeared wine in hand. Robb almost laughed. 

“Lord Stark,” Tyrion approached him and shook his hand. “I need to say,” Tyrion didn’t let go of his hand. He yanked Robb down to one knee. “Sorry for my family.”

“Don’t.” Robb shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about that. Subconsciously his hand ran to his gut where that knife was first buried. 

“Lord Stark I need to know how you found your way out here?” Tyrion asked, offering wine. Robb refused. 

“Pentos, Illyrio, Golden Company here.”

“Why?”

“Stumbled into it,” Robb laughed, “just got caught up in events I suppose.”

“Ah, I had promised my Queen that if Robb Stark was in charge of the Golden Company’s cavalry and Illyrio Mopatis had sent them here,” Tyrion swirled and drained his cup. “That you would be full of some incredible revenge.”

“Not really, I kinda fell for a girl and stumbled forward from there - as I apparently don’t learn from my mistakes,” Robb shook his head and laughed at that petty admission. “Seems I identify them in order to just make them again.”

“I would have thought you more serious,” the Queen’s mood had changed for the worse again. Was it common for her to change this frequently? 

“I apologise, your grace.”

“Hmm,” she tutted with disapproval. 

“The tale of how you got here can perhaps wait for a later date, I’m sure there is more to it than that,” Tyrion tried to sound upbeat as the mood soured in the room. “Have you been told of the Sons of the Harpy?” Robb nodded. Harry had explained what the situation was here. “Well we think you could help us. Show we have mutual interests.”

“You want me to hunt them down?” Robb asked.

“Aye,” Tyrion agreed. “They seem to be able to appear and disappear after attacking caravans coming into the city. The people are getting hungry. Hungry people get angry.”

“So you want me to kill these men,” Robb replied slowly glancing over at the Queen. She was frowning out of the window. “I’ll get right on it then my Lord Hand. My Queen,” Robb bowed. She didn’t acknowledge him after he left. 

“Why am I behaving like this,” Robb grumbled to himself as he jogged down the steps of the great pyramid. “Should have drank myself to death in Lys,” he muttered unhappily as he went to change again and rouse some of the light cavalry. 

* * *

-Ty-rio-n-

“I don’t like him,” Daenerys spoke after a while after Stark left. The silence dragging. “Are we even sure that is Robb Stark?”

“I recognize him your grace,” Tyrion confirmed. She tutted. “That is Robb Stark, his hair is shorter and his face a bit grimmer but I’d recognise him anywhere.”

“Stark. He crowned himself King, that would make him a pretender,” Daenerys turned to Tyrion. He sighed internally. He was going to have to talk the Queen into changing her mind again. 

“He clearly doesn’t call himself that anymore, doesn’t even call himself Robb Stark anymore,” Tyrion tried to reason with her.

“Pfft,” she exhaled. “He comes here and can’t remember his fake name and instantly reveals himself? Come on.”

“The man is not a deft hand at deception, he physically can’t politic,” Tyrion tried to joke, she just hummed in disapproval. 

“I fear Lord Tyrion seems to have the measure of him your grace,” Varys slithered into the room from - somewhere? How did he do that? 

“Lord Varys I take it you agree with all my other advisors and I should make Lord Stark my most trusted advisor and friend?” Daenerys snapped. “Make him a general? Take him into my bed?”

“No your grace.”

“A ghost appears from the blue and everyone appears to be fine with this.”

“Begging your pardon your grace, but he didn’t appear from the blue,” Lord Varys shuffled forward, his hands clasped inside his robes. “Our mutual friend Illyrio Mopatis’ spies spotted the former King in Pentos, returning to the same brothel to see the same girl over and over.”

“The one you tell me he has on his ship?” 

“The same your grace, Illyrio bought her for him, though according to the sailors on the ship there is no compulsion. Illyrio gifted Stark with a sword, a girl and most importantly a purpose,” Varys continued. Careful, Tyrion thought, the Queen liked not when people acted on her behalf without consulting her. 

“A purpose. His family deposed mine.”

“You know the crimes of your father your grace, you have vowed to show the world you are different, as you have already,” Varys started.

“Make your point without condescending flattery.”

“Stark is a great general and warrior and brings the loyalty of the North and Riverlands with him, he no longer wishes for a crown, he hates your enemies as much as you do. What happened to Elia Martell and to your father was cruel but no more so than the Red Wedding,” Varys had persuaded her. Tyrion could see her on the cusp of agreeing.

“My Hand agrees?” She turned to him.

“Yes your grace, and he has a powerful name, a powerful name brings you allegiances, make him your ally and offer him a Martell bride when we invade,” Tyrion said. “You’d be able to stitch the realm together from the literal top to the literal bottom.”

“Grrr,” she groaned, “gods. I suppose I’m convinced. If he survives to complete his task.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year 
> 
> x x x


	3. Third

-R-ob-b-

“We should move, Cavalry captain.”

“No,” Robb replied, he hadn’t broken his gaze from this seemingly innocuous grove off the beaten path. His men had all told him he was wrong looking here. That a large raiding party would need a broader road to operate on. They were fools. Unable to see how guerilla warfare worked and expecting a band of knifemen to work they worked. “Wait.”

The wind kept kicking up sand and clay dust, causing eddies to block his view. During the space of the afternoon a couple riders came and went. They looked like regular people. Robb knew he was right to wait in this spot. Robb knew how he would hide a raiding band. 

“Cavalry captain!” The nudge confirmed it. Hooves. A lot of them.

“To your horse,” Robb pushed the other scout up and dragged him through their hiding spot back to where he had hidden 200 of the Golden Company’s light cavalry contingent. 

“Steady, steady, steady,” Robb murmured. No one would be able to hear him speak mostly to himself. He was nervous. Unbelievably so; more than he was before the Whispering Wood. He looked left and right down the lines he had hidden behind a large raised bank off the beaten track. Please don’t get them killed, he told himself. Fuck. Right. Fuck. He breathed hard. “WITH ME LADS!” Robb yelled pulling Blackfyre free. 

Stirrups kicked flanks and hundreds of horses moved in unison. 

Cries of panic were the response from the group of riders on the road. 

The Golden Company cavalry took the bank and flooded down onto their enemies. Were they wearing golden, horned masks Robb noticed. A poor fighting choice. 

His tight formation of riders rode through the loose gathering of raiders. Robb raised Blackfyre above his head and brought it down on the first man he passed. The blade cut through the man’s scimitar and through his armour and through his ribs and spine. He cut him in half. Gods. One foe felled Robb went to turn his horse and charge back but his riders had swarmed and annihilated the raiders. 

Some help I was he thought awkwardly sliding Blackfyre back into the scabbard. Get in there you bastard, he thought as he missed the hole twice. 

“Job well done eh sir?”

“Yes, well done boys,” Robb patted shoulders and clasped hands. The way he had after the Whispering Wood. Making fast friends on the battlefield. 

“Should we cut some heads off sir?”

“Why?” 

“To show the Dragon Queen.”

“Oh, erm,” Robb paused. Cutting head off the dead was defiling them, it seemed wrong. Yet. He just nodded, he couldn’t look weak; these weren’t yet ‘his,’ men. “Sure I guess. Look through pockets, strip them down, look for orders, notes, papers any scrap of information. Any alive?”

“Yes sir.”

“Find their hideout, hideouts, lair whatever, just find out everything you can, start taking thumbs if they aren’t forthcoming,” Robb ordered. Looking around at the dead with cold impassive eyes. 

A naked man has few secrets, a flayed man wins the war. 

* * *

-Ty-rio-n-

Bells. Bells were never good. He loathed the steps up the pyramid. His little legs made them an effort to climb. Yet bells kept calling and he had to keep going. What had Varys said before Stannis attacked King’s Landing. Bells only sound for tragedy. 

Unsullied soldiers were running down the steps as he slowly climbed his way up. 

“My Lord Hand,” he was dragged into the throne room by a soldier; where the Queen was looking out over the balcony. “Quick.”

“My Queen,” he rushed over to Daenerys. 

“The Sons of the Harpy,” she spat looking out over the city as dark, black smoke began rising everywhere. “How can we not rid ourselves of these people!” 

“It is worse than that your grace, the peace treaty has been broken, a navy is entering the bay.”

“What?!”

“Don’t worry your grace, Lord Connington and Captain Strickland are using their armada to intercept the slavers. They were not expecting the Golden Company to be here.”

“The city?” Daenerys visibly calmed down a sliver when he let her know that. 

“The Sons of the Harpy are attacking our soldiers.”

“To make way for the ships?”

“Yes. Greyworm and Ser Barristan are down there fighting in the streets. Daario is leading the Second Sons with the Golden Company in boarding parties. The civilians from our harbour and prominent citizens are being escorted to the Pyramid,” Tyrion rattled off all that was happening. As if he had a hand in doing any of it. “Black Balaq and the Golden Company’s archers are coming up here to protect you.”

“My dragons…”

“We have enough soldiers to not need them, your grace.” 

She made a noise of derision. 

“Stark?”

“Out hunting them I think,” Tyrion said slowly. 

“Hmm. Surrounded by enemies and half my army, half the men I have to trust my life with are mercenaries who have shown up barely announced with the promise of loyalty. Tsk,” she sucked air through her teeth. “I don’t like this.”

“No I would imagine not.”

“Don’t patronise me Tyrion, I got enough of that from the… I don’t like this at all, too much has happened too quickly.”

“We'll be safe your grace.”

“If not I’ll release my children.”

“Of course your grace.”

***

The Battle of the Blackwater. That floated into Tyrion’s mind as he and his Queen watched in silence from the balcony of the Great Pyramid. The bombardment from the slaver’s ships was brutal and consistent. The fires and screams from the streets below suggested the horror that was street and house fighting continued between the Unsullied and the Sons of the Harpy. Every now and again some golden masked knifemen tried for the pyramid but the Golden Company archers under Black Balaq cut them down. 

“This is going badly,” Daenerys spoke to Tyrion as he searched inside each jug that was laid out looking for wine. Refugees from prominent families had been brought into the throne room and were hiding meekly in the corner. She snatched his goblet from him and drank his wine. “YOU! Bring more!” She ordered a servant who scurried off. 

Missandei stood silent in the corner watching the dark smoke rising in the city. Worried about Greyworm, most likely. 

“Fuck me,” Tyrion swore as an explosion caught him off guard. It was at the base of the pyramid’s stairs. Their enemies were getting closer. 

Daenerys stood next to him, holding wine in one hand and the other held the balcony. Staring at the devastation. The way Cersei had during the Blackwater. 

“What’s happening?” She asked him.

“I can’t say your grace, I don’t know what is happening in the harbour.”

“Do any of these?” Daenerys turned to the refugees. “Hey! Anyone you,” they all cowed meekly. “Did any of you come from the docks?” Silence and meekness. “Anyone!”

“I did your Queen-ness,” a voice spoke up. A foreign voice even for Mereen. 

“Come,” Daenerys called angrily, her temper was up. She didn’t like to be in the dark. 

An incredible beauty shuffled out of the crowd and bowed poorly in front of the Queen.

“Name?”

“Sira your… Erm,” the girl was shaking.

“Your grace,” Tyrion said kindly. She smiled at him. Gods, if he were in his past life he would have given anything to be with this girl. 

“S-s-sira your-r,” she breathed a panic breath. “Sira your grace.”

“You came from the docks,” the impatient Queen snapped. The girl nodded. “What happened there?”

“Ships came and I ran, Griff came and pushed me from the ship.”

“I don’t care about you. I care about what happened with my harbour,” Daenerys raged at her. 

“The Golden Company infantry lead their ships out to attack the invaders, they have heavy galleys and rams - I don’t know anymore your grace Griff just made me leave my cabin, shouting and scaring me your grace,” her voice warbled. 

“So the Golden Company attacked the slavers. You are sure?” The Queen pressed. The girl nodded, she was trembling. “Wait,” Daenerys stopped the girl from bowing and fleeing. “Who did you say you were again?”

“Sira your grace.”

“I got that,” Daenerys sounded annoyed, the girls trembles were almost becoming shakes. “Why are you on the Golden Company’s ship? You can’t just be some common whore or Griff wouldn’t have bothered getting you out. Are you someone’s daughter? Last name?”

“I don’t have a last name, your grace,” the girl was panicked. “I’m - I - I -,” she shuttered, this was getting cruel, what was the Queen doing Tyrion wondered. “I’m Robb Stark’s - erm…”

“Consort,” Tyrion spoke before the word whore could ruin the girl’s dignity. “Thank you for helping dear.”

The girl bowed and went to leave.

“Wait,” Daenerys held up her hand in a very regal gesture. She gave the city one last sad look. “So you are the girl Illyrio Mopatis bought for Lord Stark?” 

“Yes your grace.”

“How did you know him?”

“He came to my brothel your grace, he wanted me an -”

“No!” The hand came back up. “No, I mean Illyrio.”

“I didn’t know him, your grace.”

She snorted. “Lies.”

“No please, no your grace, it isn’t.”

“He just bought some random whore for Lord Stark? Why would he?”

“I don’t know - “

“He owns you and you don’t know why?”

“He doesn’t own me well yes he does but it doesn’t feel like that… We don’t… We’re - not - like… please…”

Tyrion could see the girl was beyond panicking. He recognized her fear. He recognised it from those who Joffrey interrogated. Those who knew nothing and were so scared of what might happen to them regardless. 

“Your grace,” Tyrion spoke. “She has been helpful.”

“Hmmm. Fine,” Daenerys waved to the girl to leave. She bowed and scraped and retreated back. “Pretty girl,” she commented after a few moments of staring out into the city. “Wonder what she is hiding.”

“She might not be.”

“Ha! Robb Stark is known to be this great warrior with a weakness for falling head over heels for women. So Illyrio buys him a woman. There is clearly something afoot.”

“He may have simply fallen for the girl and Illyrio bought him to sweeten the deal,” Tyrion reasoned. He hated the idea of innocents, especially women and children getting hurt for no reason. Especially if that reason was the paranoia of a ruler. 

“Perhaps.”

“Why do you think he sent Stark to us?”

“Because he has paid a lot of his wealth into putting you back on the throne. Robb Stark is the best battlefield commander alive. I simply think he wants to cash in on his investment.”

“I don’t like being used,” Daenerys mumbled.

“No. I could imagine not. Yet Stark is a cyvasse piece too your grace,” Tyrion reasoned. 

“Perhaps. We will sort this out. Provided we survive the night.”

***

Perhaps we won’t survive the night, Tyrion thought bitterly as he watched the smoke spilling everywhere over the city. The Golden Company fleet was probably winning out in Slaver’s Bay, but the Sons of the Harpy were taking the streets. The Golden Company archers defending the pyramid were running low on arrows. They had stopped losing barrages and taken to shooting only when necessary. 

Tyrion had found an axe. 

The situation was dire. 

A tad dire. 

“How has this happened?!” Daenerys fumed walking past Tyrion. “I have thousands of loyal men, thousands of sell swords and yet these men who are not even my true enemies are at my door!”

“They are desperate, your grace,” Tyrion tried to sound confident. “Once we quash them they will be done.”

“I am not a child in need of comforting,” Daenerys stormed out to the balcony. Walking as archers cut down the Sons of the Harpy who were trying to take the pyramid. 

“I’m sure - oh fuck me,” Tyrion joined her looked down into the city. The Sons of the Harpy were swarming the steps. Shields were being brought forth and they were interlocking them into a shieldwall. 

“I should have released my dragons… Where is Greyworm?!” The Queen demanded. Tyrion didn’t know. “Ser Barristan?” He didn’t know. “Jorah?” Again he knew not. “Gods. This is fucked.”

“The Golden Company navy appears to be winning,” Tyrion said squinting into the harbor where a battle raged. 

“How long until they win, redock, land and make safe the city? Enough time before we are overcome?” Daenerys snarled. 

“Your grace,” Missandei, whose face was strewn with tears, red lumps and sadness joined them on the balcony. “Look!”

The archers under Black Balaq were shooting precise shots but they did little to stop the encroaching shield wall created by the Sons of the Harpy. The golden masked, horned cunts had large pavise shields, allowing them to move up the Pyramid. Balaq was moving his men as wide as possible trying to shoot into the sides of the shield wall. It worked to begin with but then shields were placed at the sides as well as the front. As well as the top. 

“They’re coming!” Missandei cried out. 

“I’ll rouse those who can fight,” Tyrion mumbled. Hefting his axe and going into the swarm of refugees looking for those who might be capable of fighting. No one really looked capable. 

“TYRION!” Daenerys called. He rushed back to the balcony. The Sons of the Harpy were at the top of the stairs. Having made impressive progress. They were engaging the archers. The lightly armored archers were little match to the mob of masked attackers.

“Fuck me,” he breathed.

“Look!” Missandei pointed down.

They all tore their eyes from the freshly raging battle a hundred yards from them. Down to the bottom of the pyramid. 

Horses were spilling out through the street. Swarming the Sons of the Harpy. Several of these horses began cantoring up the pyramid stairs. 

“It’s Stark,” Varys finally spoke. He had stood a silent vigil on the balcony for the majority of the battle. 

It was Tyrion who saw him. Robb Stark, in strange foreign armour, was leading his horse up the stairs. Riding it hard at a ninety degree angle. He and a handful of other riders struck the Sons of the Harpy in the back. His sword flashed left, right, left and right again. Swirling around in a bloody mess. Red sprayed everywhere as the Golden Cavalry engulfed the shield wall’s back and flanks, allowing the archers to pull the front down with falchions and hammers. They killed them all. 

“Thank fuck,” Tyrion half laughed, half sobbed in relief, falling to his knees tossing his axe and letting it clatter away. He looked at his Queen. She was looking all of the teenager she was and none of the queen she was meant to be. Holding a hand to heart she was breathing hard, in and out. Poor girl must have thought all her dreams of revenge and crowns were on the cusp of being destroyed. “Your Grace?”

Daenerys looked at him. Breathed out and nodded to herself.

“You were right Lord Tyrion,” she said to him. Clearly trying to sound more confident and composed than she was. 

Horses hooves beat their way into the throne room. Robb Stark cut a very heroic figure, coated in blood and gore and glory on his steed. No wonder the Northerners were so enamoured with him. Stark jumped down from his horse and looked around the throne room. Daenerys and Tyrion both started walking towards him.

“Lord Stark,” the Queen began as Robb quickly knelt in front of her. He was distracted looking behind him. “I owe you a debt of -”

Her majesty was interrupted. As the girl from before rushed Robb Stark and threw her arms around him. Kissing him hard but chastely. 

“Thank the gods you’re here,” Robb spoke to her. Ignoring the Queen. Tyrion felt Daenerys tense up next to him. “You’re alright?”

“Nevermind me, are you? You’re not hurt are you?” The girl’s hands pawed all over his body looking for wounds. 

“Eh-hem!” Daenerys cleared her throat.

“Apologies, your grace,” Robb bowed again. “My cavalry is making safe the city.”

“What’s happening down there?” Tyrion asked.

“Street fighting, my Lord Hand, the Unsullied and Second Sons are handling it but it takes a lot to clear out a house or a street. Bloody and brutal work,” Robb spoke without looking at either the Hand nor the Queen. Instead his arms wrapped around the girl. Gods Stark you really have learned nothing Tyrion thought. 

“The harbour?”

“I do not know. I found the raiding party, destroyed them. Then returned to find a battle, I don’t know more than that,” Robb told them. He pushed his sword away and took his girl by the hand. “It’s just a waiting game. Guerillas are hard to expel but it is naught more than a waiting game. I would presume the Sons of the Harpy attacked the city assuming there would be a landing party from the harbor. Now Connington and Strickland have put down the landing party we just need to mop up the resistance and the battle is won and done. There will be thousands of corpses in the streets by morning, these guerillas won’t be able to muster such numbers again.”

“True,” Tyrion nodded, agreeing with Stark’s keen military analysis. 

“Well thank you Lord Stark,” Daenerys said. Tyrion caught the dirty look she gave to the girl. 

“Your grace,” he bowed. A definite flippancy to the bow. “Come on, let’s get you safe.”

“I was so scared Robb. I can’t tell -”

The two of them left Tyrion, Varys, Missandei and the Queen. 

“Poor boy, can’t learn from his past,” Varys said quietly. “Still. A welcome sight.” 

“Hmm,” the Queen mumbled, again Tyrion caught her glancing over at Robb again. “Send men down into the city. Find Daario. Find Ser Barristan, find Greyworm and Jorah.”

“Your Grace.”

* * *

-R-ob-B-

The battle raged into the following day. The Golden Company defeated the Slaver’s navy. The Unsullied and Second Sons suffered heavy casualties fighting house to house. Ser Barristan Selmy died. A lot of the Golden Company archers were dead. Only the cavalry remained completely intact. Robb suffered no losses. No injuries. No wounds. His men had struck so hard and fast as he had commanded that they had swept opposition aside. 

His riders all called out to him. Honouring him for his tactics. For giving them honour and glory and most importantly life. 

“Gods what a day,” Robb pulled off the last of his armour and put it carefully away. 

“Glad you’re alright.”

“Thanks Sira,” he breathed out. “Did you get to compare yourself negatively to the Queen?” He asked with a smirk.

“She scared me.”

“She scares me too. Has a temper on her. Gods. What am I doing here?” Robb pulled his sword free and began to clean off the drying gore. Dried blood was a pain in the arse to clean off. “We managed to find these raiders easy enough. Ran them down easy enough. We returned to find the city smoking. What happened?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Sira was rattled. Clearly rattled. She walked to Robb’s desk and looked for wine. Pouring herself a measure and drinking it with shaky hands. “I was lying in bed and then the world rumbled. That Griff man came down and screamed at me to run to the pyramid. So I did… Then the Queen confronted me. Is it hard?”

“What?”

“Killing someone,” Sira eyed the sword. 

“No, no unfortunately it isn’t,” Robb replied as he ran a rag over it, oiled it and ran the rag again. 

“Nevermind. I don’t want to know.”

“What did the Queen say?”

“She accused me of being a creature of Illyrio,” Sira told him. She eyed the blood on his sword and gagged. Turning away. 

“I can see why she thinks that - I do not like her,” Robb shook his head. “Perhaps I should rob her. Take all the wealth I can and then run.”

“Alone?”

“What?” Robb snorted with laughter. “No with you,” he said dismissively as it were obvious. Robb didn’t catch nor understand the look Sira gave him when he said that. “I fear we are caught here.” 

“We could run.”

“Where?”

Sira looked at him sadly. Shook her head and drank from her cup. Robb cleaned the last of the blood from his blade. Putting it away. 

“Fair enough,” she conceded. She put aside her cup and stood, walked to him, and sat on his lap. “She isn’t prettier than me at least,” she smirked into his ear before laughing.

“Huh? Oh,” Robb laughed and pulled her in for a kiss. “You were being interrogated by a Targaeryn Queen and you still had to compare looks?”

Sira shrugged before blushing. It made Robb’s heart pang. “Shut up!” she went to push him but he trapped her arms she just giggled and fell on him. She giggled lifting her skirts around her and reaching between her legs to push him inside her. He grunted. She was tight around him. With no foreplay it hurt and they both grunted in tandem as he slowly pushed himself into her. Her folds getting wetter and allowing him in as they went. 

“Stark,” the door flew open and Lord Connington was already half way into the room before he realised onto which he had intruded. “Gods. Make yourself decent.”

Robb pulled Sira off him and dropped her on the bed. Letting her cover herself with the sheets on her own. He pulled up his trousers. Awkwardly shoving the erect head of his cock into the draw string.

“The fuck Connington?” He snarled. Not worried about himself, just hoping that Sira’s dignity hadn’t been humiliated. 

“Apologies Stark, I - look,” Connington grasped his arm and pulled him from the cabin. “I should have knocked, yes, I know. Anyway, importantly, we owe our thanks. The battle was easily won but you saved the pyramid. Saved the Queen.”

“Hmmm,” Robb rolled his eyes. “It was obvious what was happening. A successful attack on the Queen was all they needed. So I cut them off.”

“Well - it wasn’t obvious to anyone else it seems that her commanders got bogged down in street fights. So thanks Stark, and look we needed to earn the Queen’s trust and I think you just did that.”

“I doubt it,” Robb laughed. “The Queen likes me not.”

“I and Strickland,” Connington spoke, the way he said ‘Strickland,’ with such disdain was interesting. “Have just spent half of an hour with her grace and she did little but sing your praise.”

Really? Robb thought to himself. He had thought the Queen loathed him. 

“That’s - well she ought to, I saved her,” Robb said slowly. He wasn’t sure what to say, his mind trying to make of what Jon had told him. He thought about telling Sira that the Queen actually appreciating him then imagined her annoyed face and almost laughed. He coughed and waggled his lips left and right to hide his slight grin. 

“Yes. She was impressed. The Lannister was impressed too.”

“Tyrion is a decent man.”

“He’s a fucking Lannister,” Connington almost spat in Robb’s face in his sudden rage. “Sorry,” Jon recomposed himself. “His family is not to be trusted. I don’t care if he killed his father. You know what the Lannisters are capable of.”

“Tyrion is a decent man,” Robb repeated.

“Grrr, I’m trying to be your friend Stark and you fight me at every turn.”

“I speak my mind, should I pretend to agree with you so that we can become mates?” Robb sneered. 

“Be careful son, you have no friends out here, and you will need to choose some, think wisely.”

“My lord,” Robb just nodded curtly.

“My lord,” Jon snarled. 

“He’s an utter arsehole,” Sira said when Robb shut the door behind him. He turned to agree but lost his voice as he saw her nude, splayed out on the bed. “What? What?” she grinned. “What? Robb?”

He walked to the bed and grabbed her foot and dragged her towards him.

“I didn’t mind you calling me Talisa, but call me Daenerys and I’ll cut your balls off,” she bit his lip hard.

* * *

-Ty-r-i-on- 

He looked over the letter. Looked it over again.

Huh. Would you look at that? 

House Tyrell had pledged its support to House Targaeryn. A navy from the Arbor and from Oldtown was on its - Tyrion paused. Cersei blew up the Sept of Baelor? That cunt. What a fucking lunatic. Margaery Tyrell survived. Huh. That was interesting. That was useful.

He read it before the battle raged but it didn’t register. Events overtook him. 

“We have rounded up what is left of the insurgents,” Jorah said. He looked rough. Fresh and angry cuts were prevalent over his face. Ser Barristan was dead. He died saving Greyworm. Who might not survive either. He was in the hospital, barely clinging to life. “Stark caught and executed the leaders and destroyed their lair. We are done with them now.”

“Did he?”

“He did,” Lord Varys confirmed Jorah’s words. “He doesn’t know that he did but he did.”

“How can he not know?” Daenerys laughed walking out to the balcony. The city was already being fixed. “Oh,” she stopped Varys talking. “Trapped in the arms of that Sirri.”

You know her name, Tyrion thought. Noticing something in his queen. 

“We can consolidate and reform our armies in a fortnight. The Tyrell navy will be here in a few weeks,” Tyrion said, brandishing scrolls. Trying to drag the conversation back to Westeros. “We could leave for Dragonstone within the month.” Probably not though. “Within a couple months.”

“Do you think Stark cares that he saved my future reign?” Daenerys asked. Dragging the conversation back to Stark eh? Tyrion thought. She doesn’t even know she did it. 

“I do not know your grace,” Varys said. “However he has been helpful so far and with this letter from House Tyrell I would suggest a marriage.”

“What?” Tyrion and Daenerys said at once. 

“Yes. Marry Robb Stark to Margaery Tyrell. You have two leaders of two great houses offering support. Marry them and then there will be a loyal bond spread across the country. Stark would appreciate a beauty like Margaery and would bring tens of thousands of men with him.”

“Stark is not the head of his House,” Tyrion disagreed. “Not anymore.”

“Hmmm, a wise use of the pieces that have fallen in our lap,” Jorah agreed with Varys.

“I don’t think Stark could just arrive at Winterfell ask the Boltons to leave and raise the levy,” Tyrion rolled his eyes. 

“Winterfell may not be in the hands of the Boltons too much longer,” the Spider said cryptically. “The Young Wolf has a powerful name and reputation,” Varys replied.

“The Young Wolf also doesn’t appreciate wedding pacts, no matter how pretty Margaery Tyrell might be.”

“Half of this city is on fire and that is where your minds are at?” Daenerys asked. “Later we will talk about this. Leave me. Not you nor you,” she stopped Tyrion and Varys. They waited in silence for a long time as footsteps left the throne room. “I’ve left this city smoking. Like your sister has with King’s Landing.”

“My sister destroyed King’s Landing to escape her crimes, you have defeated the criminals to make safe this city,” Tyrion shot back. “Your grace, you are good, you need not compare yourself to Cersei.”

“Hmmm,” she hummed. “You think Tyrell's offer is true?” The Queen had a habit of jarringly shifting tone in conversation.

“They never liked my family, it was that blustering fool Mace Tyrell who made the deals with my father, the actual knights of the Reach would much rather have sided with chivalry,” Tyrion explained. He wasn’t sure if that was true at all. “Mace wanted power, I would expect despite all the talk of revenge on my sister and desire for a new ruler, they probably still want more power.”

“Mace Tyrell is dead. Who would be the side of chivalry?”

“No one now.”

“You just said they would have rather sided with chivalry,” the Queen scowled at him.

“That was back when Robb Stark was confronting his father’s killers, and the Riverlands were burning,” Tyrion spoke slowly. “Now? They have no one, but the Tyrells were your families’ ally, and the cause of vengeance against their liege lords murderer ought to stir their retainers and knights. I would say their offer is genuine.” 

There was a very long pause.

“What was the name of that girl?”

Tyrion had to shake his head. He was ready to talk about marriage proposals, alliances, war and explain the deep fractures throughout Westeros. Not gossip.

“Which?”

“The one who was fawning over Stark?” Daenerys was obviously trying to sound nonchalant. 

“Sira I believe, your grace.”

“She was pretty wasn’t she?” 

Tyrion had to pause once more, he didn’t know how to proceed. Even though ‘yes, she was a gorgeous creature,’ was the correct answer, Tyrion suspected that answer would garner derision.

“She was pretty enough I suppose your grace, a bit young for me,” Tyrion tried to sound jovial.

“Hmmm. Illyrio Mopatis would appear to be full of generosity and gifts yet they are false gifts, their price hidden until the last moment,” Daenerys said.

“It would appear,” Varys replied, going to defend his friend, “Stark found the girl because she looks like his murdered wife. Illyrio simply paid for her to entice the boy.”

“You would say that,” the Queen retorted. “He is your closest friend. Perhaps planting spies around me.”

“Well - “

“No matter,” she waved Varys off. “I don’t particularly care,” she murmured. Yes you do, Tyrion thought, curious why you do but you do. “I have too much on my mind. I thought my Hand was supposed to take the weight from my mind.”

“Yo-”

“Stop,” she sighed and rubbed her face again looking like a teenager and not a rule for a fraction of a second. “You two talk with the others, come to me with strategies of dealing with this situation and how to proceed. I - I need to visit Greyworm and pay my last respects to Ser Barristan.”

“Your grace,” He and Varys bowed. “Who are the others?”

“What?” Varys scowled at him. 

“She said to summon the others, oh well, I suppose we can just talk like normal, have her ignore us and continue from there,” Tyrion sighed looking out at Meereen. “I fucking hate it here.”

“Hmm,” Varys hummed with agreement. “I appear to be getting closer and closer to the battles and I like it not.” Silence stretched between them as they looked out onto the smoke, debris and blood. One of the little children the Spider employed as spies rushed to the spymaster and shoved paper in his hand. “Oh joy above joy,” he sighed, handing over the note.

Tyrion scanned it. 

“The Greyjoys? Surely that is a good thing, bringing more ships to our cause,” Tyrion said.

“Yes and I’m sure Robb Stark will overflow with happiness seeing his old pal Theon,” Varys said flippantly.

“Ah.”

“Yes, ah.”


	4. Fourth

-T-yri-on-

“Well I don’t ask, but I’m up for anything really,” Yara Greyjoy smirked at the Queen. The Greyjoys had explained themselves well enough Tyrion thought. It was so transparent to him that suddenly, when Daenerys Targaeryn was able to raise the biggest army and had three dragons, Lord and Ladies found new, excellent reasons to join her side. 

The bargaining continued. There wasn’t much of a bargain struck, the Queen made demands and they agreed. 

They would have an actual armada with the Iron Fleet and Redwyne fleet. 

“Ah, Captain Strickland,” the Queen waved in the commander of the Golden Company. “Come.”

“Your grace,” the Captain left his other three captains behind the Greyjoys to bend his knee in front of the throne. “Connington sunk all their ships, the three leaders of this, insurgency, were sunk with their ships. Our Cavalry Captain’s men found all their plans and letters outside of the city and destroyed that hideout. It would appear we have quashed the majority of them. We hope our actions prove our loyalty to your grace.”

“Hmmm,” the Queen surveyed Strickland. He was a weak and decadent man who inspired little love; obsessed with letting people know he was impressive rather than ever doing anything to show he was. “Very well captain. How is the state of your navy?”

“Damaged from the surprise attack your grace but we haven’t lost one, simply need to repair them.”

“Materials will be brought. Thank you. All of you leave us.”

Tyrion bowed in a second and was already running as fast as he could manage down the throne steps to intercept Theon Greyjoy before he ran into - oh fucking bollocks.

“Robb?” Theon’s voice cracked as his eyes bulged. His eyes bulged out for half a second before a fist knocked them back into his skull. Theon hit the floor hard. Robb Stark was in the process of mounting Theon’s shoulders to rain fists down into the man’s face before anyone intervened. Stark still managed three hard punches, direct and straight into Theon’s face, around his right eye before two Unsullied guards pulled him off.

“STOP THIS!” Daenerys’ voice boomed from the top of the stairs. Returning to the room. “What the hell do you think you’re doing Stark?”

“This cretin betrayed me, betrayed my family, my -”

“You should be dead. You’re not real,” Theon blubbered. 

“You need to back the fuck off,” Yara snarled at Stark who just sneered at her.

“I’m not in the least bit worried about some gash in damp strips of leather,” he dismissed her. “You killed Bran, you killed Rickon you -”

“I didn’t!” 

“He didn’t,” Yara stepped between the two of them. “Your brothers escaped. He burned two farm boys. Why don’t you ask your sister, Sansa is it? How she feels about my brother.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? My sister is dead.”

“You’re the dead one Stark, your sister was married off to the Boltons, Theon freed her, got her to Jon Snow, you owe him.”

“Ha! I owe him,” Robb kneeled down by Theon’s face. As the old ward of the Stark coughed and sputtered from the beating he’d received. “Remember when you promised me a navy?”

“I do,” Theon nodded.

“Remember when you promised me an army?”

“I do.”

“Remember when you attacked Winterfell? Destroying any momentum my campaign against the Lannisters had?”

“I do.”

“I will kill you Theon Greyjoy. I know I can’t do it here. I know I’ll have to promise to someone important that I don’t mean this but I do. I will kill you, then I’ll burn your body,” Robb whispered into Theon’s ear. He stood and held his arms up to show he meant no further harm. A ruse, as Stark gut kicked the downed figure so hard in the guts he was sick. 

“LORD STARK!” Daenerys bellowed.

He dropped to one knee in front of her.

“I will not have my throne room devalued to pantomime and violence!”

“I only apologise only for doing it here your grace, and for - disrespecting you, not for doing it,” Robb Stark replied from one knee. “He destroyed my home!”

“And you abandoned it,” she snapped back. “You two, speak, work this out. I don’t need this drama Lord Stark.”

“Your grace.”

Tyrion cornered Stark before he could storm off. The Queen was long gone. “That was stupid, eh?” 

“Yeah it was,” Robb rubbed his brow. They walked out onto the stairs of the pyramid and sat down overlooking the city in repairs. “I shouldn’t have done that but Theon betrayed me.”

“He is a little shit,” Tyrion agreed. Remembering the lad he had met up in Winterfell all those years ago. “Or was. He saved your sister from the Boltons.”

“Truly?”

“Seems so. She is with Jon Snow up at Castle Black.”

“For now. The Boltons will fall upon them soon. Wipe what's left of my house out,” Robb sighed. “I suppose the Theon Greyjoy in Essos isn’t the Theon Greyjoy from Westeros.”

“Same for Robb Stark.”

“No, I’m the same moron I used to be,” Robb laughed bitterly, Tyrion noticed the signs of aging on the lads face. “I had great plans on becoming this nomad sellsword out here and look at me. Back in the army. Back in the Game of Thrones. Back to Westeros. Back among faces I’d wished to never see again.”

“Back in the arms of a girl…” Tyrion left that hanging hoping not to cause offence, but Robb just laughed and nodded. This Robb was certainly a lot less sensitive than the one he had met that lifetime ago.

“That too. Literally fell for the first girl I met, gods, what a dunce I am,” he laughed hollowly. “Fucking hells. Yeah I can’t seem to help myself. How did you manage to whore far and wide and never let yourself fall for the girls?”

“Ha! ‘Cause the girls don’t tend to fall for me back,” Tyrion laughed. “Some girl, sold to a brothel, then a dead King arrives and sweeps her off to a new life of Queens and battles and excitement. No wonder. Just don’t marry her.”

“What does it matter if I do,” Robb sighed. 

“You’re still Robb Stark. You’re still the true Lord of Winterfell, the Queen might need your name when we arrive in Westeros.”

“She can use my mind and my sword - my name died at the Twins.”

“How did you survive that by the way?” Tyrion finally asked. “I’ve heard things here and there but nothing solid.”

“I survived it. That’s all that matters.”

“Do you ever wish you didn’t?” 

Robb paused as he went to stand up and leave Tyrion. “No,” he sat back down. “No I do not. Sometimes I wish that I was dead. Just because my mother is dead because of me, Talisa, our child, because of me, all of my soldiers and most of my trusted generals. All because of me,” Robb looked off into the middle distance, his stare reaching a 1000 yards away. “Yet I was the King in the North, the Young Wolf,” the laugh was bitter, “I didn’t want to die in such a squalid and miserable way and all things considered I am glad I didn’t. ‘Tis horrible to admit but even though all my men died I’m glad I didn’t… I would have. I would,” pain gripped his face. “I would have died, but I didn’t. Wishing myself dead won’t bring them back. Though a part of who I was is definitely dead.”

“I see.”

“Both of us have survived assassination attempts from your father you know,” Robb spoke. 

“Aye. Good thing I killed him. Though I survived mine because of Jaime, he saved me,” Tyrion told Robb. He hadn’t told anyone else, only Varys knew. His brother's name was not welcome in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn.

“Jaime Lannister, I forget, I held him prisoner so long. It seems too long ago. As if I’m triple my age, nay triple, triple my age, and it is some distant memory I can only see through the fog of forgetfulness. I never truly disliked your brother, I have to admit, cocky arsehole that he was,” Robb patted Tyrion on the shoulder. “I never disliked you either.”

“You gave that impression.”

“Back home, from when my father left to be Robert’s hand, to when that first knife entered my stomach at the Twins I was naught but impressions. I was a frightened boy pretending and I pretended my way into a few good decisions.”

“I thought the same when I was Hand and I defeated Stannis,” Tyrion shook his head in disagreement. “I was just bumping into lucky choice after lucky choice. That can’t be true. Same for you. We’re both good at what we do Stark. That’s why our Queen needs us.”

“Our Queen,” he snorted. “I’ve stumbled my way here Lannister,” Stark sighed. “I simply bury myself in a girls legs and re emerged into war,” he laughed at himself. 

“The Tyrells -”

“I don’t want to know, this is getting too much again,” Robb sighed running his hand over the back of his hair, fingers searching for hair to grasp but finding none. 

“Go on then.”

“Go on then?”

“Go to your girl, lose yourself between her legs for a few hours,” Tyrion shook his hand and they shared a smile. 

“We’ll worry about the dark times to come, later.”

“What dark times?” Tyrion wanted specifics. 

“Oh… I thought it would just cut to black and someone else would take over so my question would go unanswered… Wasn’t prepared to back it up… With… Anything.”

“What?!” Tyrion looked at Robb completely bamboozled. 

“What?!” Robb returned furrowing his brow and looking at the Hand of the Queen as if he were the one who said something nonsensical. “Good day my lord,” Robb said very slowly and purposefully as if Tyrion had thrown him.

He watched Stark walk down the stairs of the Pyramid. 

What a strange world. 

It probably was a good time to worry about said ‘dark times,’ especially when one considered the very important fact that -

* * *

-Ma-rg-aerg-y-

She sat down in the gardens just outside of the castle of Highgarden. Headstones had been made for her parents and her brother. Obviously they had no bodies to bury. This was simply ceremonial. 

Margaery had spent a lot of time sitting by these graves. Weeping sadly. 

Tommen Baratheon had cast himself from the Red Keep after the explosion. The letter arrived soon after from the capitol. 

Cersei Lannister had made herself Queen. 

Her grandmother had taken charge of the Reach. Soldiers were swarming into Highgarden and forming a tent city underneath its walls. Lord Redwyne and Hightower had sailed off to the far side of the world to bring monsters and a dead dynasty back. 

“You just need to be patient,” Olenna told her. “I know it is hard at your age, I was very impatient, but rashness will find you next to your parents in the dirt. I don’t mean to be harsh but we are not in the same situation as we were once in. We do not have the power anymore. Cersei has done things which are beyond - well she has outmaneuvered us to say the least.” The matriarch rubbed her face. “Sansa Stark and her bastard brother are going to fight the Boltons. They will lose. So our only ally would appear to be in Essos.”

“Lord Redwyne is sailing,” Margaery replied carefully.

“Aye, but we have little to offer but our name, the Tyrell support is simply that. House Tyrell, we don’t have much of an army left. The Lannisters have fallen upon our soldiers and destroyed them. We can muster say 12,000, another few thousand are on the ships.”

That was a lot less than the 100,000 that was spoken about during her wedding to Renly. 

“So…”

“So we wait dear girl, we wait. We survive. You have survived an assassination, just wait and survive.”

“I want revenge,” Margaery said determinedly. “I hate the Lannisters.”

“You’re not the only one,” Olenna pulled free a scroll. “It would appear even the dead are coming back for revenge against the Lannisters.”

“Huh?” Margaery took the scroll and read a dead man’s name was aligned with Daenerys Targaryen. “How did you get this?”

“Everyone has spies and secret friends my dear. Even little old me.”

“Must be a trick.”

“Why?”

Margaery paused. She didn’t believe it. The Lannisters were pretty good at wiping out noble houses. They spared… Oh wait, no, she survived. She had survived, her mind had been warped and twisted up with the memories of her mother, father, brother - all those brave knights and fine ladies who she had known since childhood. If the letter was true then Stark had done the exact same as her. Survived.

So it could be possible. It just seemed so impossible. Yet she was impossible. She ought not be standing. 

“A dead Lord… Well he has no army,” Margaery began slowly.

“He does,” Olenna picked up a second letter, “this is from Lord Varys, who I believe is writing to me without the permission of his Queen… Perhaps our Queen,” she added a lot quietly. “The Golden Company appears to be getting on side with Stark. That is interesting.”

“So…” Margaery wanted her grandmother to just proceed with haste. Not try to make her think. There was no time for this. 

“Seems the Spider thinks that the Prince of Dorne is on his way to see the Dragon Queen.”

“Makes sense.”

“It does, but they are no friends of ours.”

“Who cares about stuff like that?” Margaery scrunched up her face in disapproval. “The Lannisters are our ultimate enemy, I’d ally with the bloody wildlings to oust those… Bastards.”

“Then our part is settled. We pledge what we can, gather what we can to help and… Yes?” Olenna snapped her head to the door which had been opened without a knock by a servant. Her grandmother loathed such presumptions. 

“Lion banners!” The man was wheezing in exhaustion, “on the horizon!” 

“Gods!”

Margaery was on her feet so fast that the goblets and plates on the table clattered to the floor with her violent flourish of movement. She rushed to the balcony and her heart dropped into her the pit of her chest. Thousands of Red Banners with the prancing Golden Lion were appearing in the distance. Far more men than were camped around the walls of Highgarden… Moving rather fast.

* * *

-Ram-sa-y-

The grin hadn’t left his face since he awoke, just before dawn.

His men were mustered. 

Lines of spears.

Lines of pavises.

Lines of archers.

Lines of horses.

Ramsay’s grin played over his mouth as he rode his horse to the head of his army. Rickon Stark trailed behind him, a rope around his neck. The dead boy walking, stumbled to keep up and Ramsay made it hard for him to do so. Playing with his quarry one last time.

“I’ll get the heavy infantry ready,” Lord Umber called over to Ramsay. Ramsay nodded in reply. He hoped the man perished today. His tone and demeanour was not to the new Warden of the North’s liking. 

He hopped from his mount and looked at the burning crosses of the Dreadfort placed over the field and then his army smiling wider as he saw the meagre force that awaited him. 

Snow. Fucking bastard.

He had managed to rustle up a band more than an army. 

The wait was killing him. He wanted blood. 

At last he released Rickon, ‘run to your brother,’ he told him. Before reaching for his bow. 

Snow was an honour bound fool, like his father and his brother before him. He would end the same way for the same mistake. 

He could see the FUCKING BASTARD, mounted at the head of his ‘army,’ as if the pretender were an actual lord. Ramsay snapped his neck side to side in annoyance before taking an arrow and notching it.

…

Ramsay paused, Snow wasn’t charging, he had been blocked by other horses. 

The twitch jolted through his whole face in fury at what had happened, or more what hadn’t happened.

Instead of his plan to shoot warning after warning he drew the bow back and loosed. The shaft rising fairly high, before striking true; cutting down Rickon Stark barely 200 yards from the Bolton lines.

“Prepare to advance!” Ramsay shouted. Rage blinding him, as his masterwork of a plan had fallen apart at the first step. 

The bastard’s lines were beginning to move forward. Slowly. Ramsay didn’t need them to go far, just into the range of his archers. He had so many more men. Part of his plan still stood. Would still work.

His cavalry went left and right, on the flank of the main block of infantry. His spearmen with their pikes and large pavise shields made up the rear, yet to move. 

Ramsay’s force moved quicker.

As they closed in his cavalry funelled around to the centre in order to directly charge the bastard’s wildling infantry. The lumbering giant too. It was still made of flesh and blood and bone; it may kill a few dozen of his men but it would come down. 

Ramsay smirked, he had calmed down. The day would soon… Be… His…

The bastard’s lines had stopped to brace. 

Out of his archery range. 

“Bloody cowards,” he seethed to himself. Turning away in anger to kick a stone. 

“My Lord!”

Ramsay spun on his heel and grabbed the man by the cuffs of his leather jerkin.

“What?!”

The man was too scared to speak, a look that Ramsay always relished, he just gestured towards the impedening battlefield with a jerk of his head.

Ramsay shoved him to the floor and turned to see the worst thing he could have turned to see. 

More men were pouring out of the woods where the bastard had placed his army. Presumably with spike traps and ditches, Ramsay needed to move them away from the woods. 

Too many men rushed forth. They were too far away to identify any markings or sigils, however their number was identifiable. An easy thousand. 

He still had the advantage. 

Still had the advantage, he repeated to himself as he ground his teeth and his left eye twitched. 

The new force paused behind the bracing wildling infantry. His men were still out of - fuck sake.

A volley flew high from the bastard’s new troops, travelling far more distance than they ought to have. Raining down on the heads of his cavalry. 

“Move them to the flanks!!” A captain near Ramsay yelled. Flags were waved and trumpets blown. Ramsay’s horsemen did move but not until two more heavy, fast volleys cut down men and horses. Creating a grisly barrier of dead and dying man and horse flesh between the two lines.

“Get the spears to the front!” Ramsay raged. 

Umber was in a panic. It was obvious even from a distance. The arrows were still rising and falling in deadly showers as the Dreadfort’s troops rearranged themselves. The broad shields linked together and pushed forward in a chaotic mess. The infantry under Umber getting struck by far reaching volley after far reaching volley. 

“Move up!” Ramsay waved his archers forward. Total engagement. His plan had failed and he was too consumed with spiteful hate to be able to formulate a new one; he was too consumed with hate to formulate much more than; kill. “Get in range and start shooting!”

The bowmen scrambled, grabbing their spare ammunition.

Ramsay and his bodyguard trotted, very slowly, forward. He didn’t want to throw his life away from a chance projectile. The lines were about to engage. His cavalry were trying to reform on the flanks of his two blocks of infantry but these new found archers were focused directly and solely on the right side. Cutting down horse after horse, it looked like the riders were losing control of their destriers under the continuous volleys. 

On the left…

Ramsay spat with rage as the bastard’s mismatch of traitorous cavalry collided in good order with his yet to reform on the left flank. Hitting them with a lightning urgency. 

He still had those heavy spears and a lot more men.

The infantry was just about to engage when that freakish, abomination, lumbering at fourteen/fifteen feet tall crashed through the tightly locked shield wall. The wildling scum followed. Screeching with the fury of the ill-disciplined mob the foreign invaders ran through the shield wall.

The giant, fucking monstosrity that it was; was peeling off the shields and allowing pockets of wildlings through.

“We should get back into Winterfell,” Ramsay mumbled to himself. “Call Umber! Call him! Get them back!”

Trumpets sounded and flags were waved giving direction and the infantry under Umber reacted and about turned and started rushing back over the field. Having not even got their swords bloodied. 

Ramsay’s cavalry was decimated on one side by arrow fire; the dead horses and dying men trapping those alive in a barrier of caracusses. The bastard’s cavalry had run through the other flank and had engulfed what remained of the Dreadfort’s horse. 

Fuck.

Ramsay knew his enemy, even with his magical reinforcements, had not the men for a siege.

Umber would have to die another day. He was needed now. 

Another horn sounded. 

Ramsay kept riding his horse to the gates of Winterfell, letting the handful of men he left in the garrison open the broad doors, before turning.

Of course. OF FUCKING COURSE!

Thousands of riders, clad in heavy plates, were streaming over the hill. 

“Get inside!” one of his officers screamed. The archers rushed through the gates. The infantry under Umber were going to be caught out. “Archers to the battlements!” 

Ramsay waited by the gates; surveying the ill-fated battlefield. Everything had gone wrong. 

He still had a solid garrison of soldiers and high, strong walls. If only he had Rickon to bargain with.

Dismounting he made his way up to the battlements. 

Fuck. He punched the stonework to get some of the rage out. 

The riders were from the Vale. The Falcon sigil fluttering from the flags attached to their lances. 

They had intercepted Umber’s infantry and hit them so hard the men broke immediately.

Slaughtered like cowards.

His cavalry and spearmen were surrendering. 

“Shoot anyone who gets in range!” Ramsay ordered. “ANYONE!” 

“Loose at will boys! Loose at will!” 

The bastard had taken the field but he wouldn’t have Winterfell. The Lannisters would help. Yes. That was all he needed to do, Ramsay comforted himself. He just needed to hold the castle against the bastard for a couple months and the Lions would reinforce him. 

“Look mi’Lord,” his archery officer pointed, “that sigil.”

Ramsay followed where the man was pointing and frowned in confusion. The Tully sigil was fluttering among the Direwolf banners. The archers were from the Riverlands - it now made sense that they were able to shoot so far, their presence in the North did not make sense.

“Double the guard on the walls,” Ramsay muttered absent-mindedly, slowly walking down from the ramparts. This didn’t make sense. He was half tempted to beat one of his men to death to get more of the rage out.

Only, he could no longer afford the men.


	5. Fifth

-M-ar-ga-ery-

No one paid her any heed as Margaery had to push herself up against wall after wall to let soldiers rush past her. She moved out of their way the way others used to move for her. 

She had never felt more like a silly, little girl.

All the men who paid her naught but the highest respect normally had zero time for her now. 

Her power as a Lady seemed not to count when she felt like she needed it most. Any sort of security aside from the walls of the castle was stripped away. She felt bare. 

“Grandmother?!” She asked exasperated as she opened the Queen of Thorn’s study door; high up in the castle. The old woman was standing by her balcony, her hands on the railing, her eyes pointed square ahead.

It was no surprise. The Lannister army was sprawled outside their gates. The formerly picturesque view of rolling golden fields was replaced by a grim view of steel and iron. 

“There sure are a lot of them,” she muttered as if speaking to herself alone as Margaery walked with pace to join her grandmother. Looking over the balcony she had little recourse but to agree whole-heartedly. 

Tents stretched all along the roads and fields that Margaery had once played in as a child. Men moved, they looked like ants from the height and distance. The treeline off in the distance was slowly receding to axes and saws as the Lannisters took control of nature to warp and twist it into machines of death. 

“I’ve heard it can take a month to make a trebuchet…” Olenna finally spoke. 

“At least they haven’t stormed us already,” was all Margaery could weakly muster. Positivity was hard to find. 

“Hmmm, not for lack of trying, their outriders fell upon our camps, our army is more of a warband at this point. Lord Tarly is certain we can hold the walls for a year. The stocks we had for those mustering can be split far more ways,” Olenna said sadly. The implication was not lost on Margaery. “We just have to pray that… Well not pray,” she frowned, the memory of the Sparrows still fresh in both their minds, “hope beyond hope that there is a Targaryen invasion within the next 11 months and 30 days.”

“I’m sure we can repel them…” Margaery was not at all sure they could repel them. 

“Unlikely,” Olenna sighed heavier this time than before. Taking her granddaughter by the forearm and taking her away from the sad sight. “Fighting isn’t really our forte. Don’t give me that look. The Lannister army is second to none, they might lose battles to fearsome Northerners but us soft Southerners will be massacred. The men they caught outside the walls barely put up a fight.”

“I don’t like that.”

“No, and most of these foolish boys clad in pricey plates their daddies bought them wouldn’t like it too much either; but truth is truth and it hurts, but it hurts rather a lot less than the alternative. Now don’t be angry,” Olenna paused all of a sudden, the crack of her walking stick on the floor stopped ringing throughout the corridor. 

“About…” Margaery scrunched her face up in confusion. Surely she had naught but reasons to be angry. Since the moment her marriage to Renly ended in disaster, life had been cruel. 

“The last raven I sent out before the Lannisters surrounded us was to Lord Varys. Offering your hand and therefore Lordship of the Reach for more immediate help.” 

“To.”

“Who do you think?” Olenna scowled at her. “Now come let’s us enjoy Lord Tarly’s charming company.”

* * *

-Ty-r-iON-

“This hurts my head.”

“That’s because you’re always hungover,” Varys rolled his eyes audibly somehow. 

“Not when I’m drunk.”

“Yes. Even then.”

Tyrion wanted to argue but instead he took a large swig of wine. It sat ill on his upset, hungover stomach but the next few would get easier. He knew that from experience. 

Varys was scratching away with a quill. The tip of the quill made a noise which grated against Tyrion’s ears. He wanted to gag.

“What are you doing?”

“What I do.”

“Plotting then,” Tyrion decided. “If you’ve been acting on her grace’s behalf without her consent you may lose your head.”

“More likely I lose my skin, as it burns off,” Varys countered, he wasn’t really listening it was obvious, instead he scratched some more with that bloody quill. “Besides I feel our Queen will be pleased with my plotting.”

“Oh really?” Tyrion drank some more. Repress the gags and soon the wine will kick in he told himself for the umpteenth morning in a row. 

“Ahh, see,” Varys motioned to a child who rushed in gave him two sealed letters, took a coin and scampered off as quickly as they arrived. “The Boltons have… Oh dear, well still a better outcome than was first likely.” Varys discarded the first letter and began to break the seal on the second.

“Erm? What?” Tyrion asked pointedly. 

“Well my plotting got the Blackfish out of Riverrun and up to Sansa Stark and Jon Snow,” Varys said very smugly. 

“What?” Tyrion’s hangover suddenly disappeared at this shocking news. “Explain.”

“I sent messages to the Blackfish explaining how Sansa was rousing the Knights of the Vale…” Varys began.

“She was?” Tyrion was lost already.

“She was, that Jon Snow had raised a Stark army, I convinced him to unite with the two Kingdoms with which he has most connection and that his nephew, poor captive Lord Edmure would be restated as Paramount of the Trident when our Queen takes the Kingdoms. That the Lannisters were worried about the Reach more than the Riverlands.”

“She might not be too pleased about that,” Tyrion spoke carefully, his mind still processing what Varys had revealed. He couldn’t believe the man had the energy to scheme so tirelessly. If Tyrion’s life wasn’t directly threatened it all seemed like too much. “That you promised things in her name,” he clarified, “not the new allies.”

“Perhaps, but it seems that Snow has beaten Ramsay Bolton in the field thanks to the archers from the Riverlands,” Varys continued, glancing down at his letters as he spoke. That made sense, the bowmen from the Riverlands were the most deadly in Westeros. The horrors his families’ army had during the War of the Five Kings trying to take crossings and bridges under a maelstrom of arrows didn’t bear thinking about. “The Knights of the Vale broke what was left of the Boltons.”

“That’s good… With Winterfell back - “

“Ah! No, unfortunately not,” Varys frowned. “It would appear that Ramsay Bolton has managed to hole himself up in the castle proper and is preparing for a siege.” 

“Well… The North itself is back in Stark hands,” Tyrion took the positive. “Stark will be pleased.” Tyrion furrowed his brow at his own grating sentence… Used Stark twice. “Will he? Maybe.” He shrugged for his own sake, too hungover to put the effort into working out what Stark would think about the battle. 

“Maybe,” Varys didn’t help. “However it would seem with no siege in the Riverlands anymore -.”

“How did the Blackfish get his army out?” Tyrion asked.

“With your brother needing his army elsewhere the siege fell to the Freys.The Freys didn’t set a perimeter or scouts and got drunk every night and had their camp facing away from the castle and forgot to -”

“Point taken,” Tyrion held up his hand to stop the list. Lists were tiring.

“With no Tullys to siege your brother has taken the entire Lannister and now Frey army South and…”

“Sieged Highgarden,” Tyrion realised immediately. “There’s a lot of money in Highgarden. Enough for an army.” 

“For a big army,” Varys agreed, “Lord Tarly has holed up what is left of the Reach’s soldiers in the castle and Lady Olenna requests relief as soon as possible.”

“Repeat that Lord Varys,” Daenerys’ voice from the corner of the room made them both jump. She didn’t look cross, that was good. The Queen was not particularly skilled at masking her true emotions. 

“The Lannisters have besieged Highgarden and Lady Olenna requests aid,” Varys repeated.

“And the North has been reclaimed,” Daenerys revealed how long she had been listening in.

“Yes my Queen,” Varys bowed subserviently.

“Do not do that again Lord Varys, or else there will be severe consequences,” her temper flared but she calmed quickly. “How many men do the Tyrells have?”

“There will be a few thousand on the Redwyne fleet en route here,” Varys spoke with head held low. “Only two thousand remain in Highgarden.”

“Not a powerful ally.”

“Their fleet is now the largest in Westeros with Stannis’ destroyed and the Greyjoys split between Euron and Yara,” Tyrion tried to appease their ill-tempered monarch. 

“True, we need them, fine, what do they want?”

“Aid, to be relieved, your grace,” Varys spoke. 

“Make Highgarden my priority?” 

“They have a lot of money,” Tyrion continued his appeasement, “and their lands were untouched by war, we’ll need their crops… The Riverlands won’t recover for a decade.”

“Fine, we’ll help Highgarden, I suppose if the Lannister army is there we can defeat them once and for all,” Daenerys decided. “Fine now what of the North? It is back in Stark hands?”

“Apologies, your grace, however the Tyrells say their aid comes offer of marriage.”

“Who?” The Queen frowned.

“Margaery Tyrell.”

“I can’t marry her.”

“No, your grace, they offer her hand to Robb Stark,” Varys elaborated. 

“Why?” Daenerys frowned ever deeper, a little annoyed. 

“They don’t give a reason.”

“They are in no position to ask for anything.”

“It would make Robb Stark acting Lord of the Reach and Winterfell when the war is won,” Tyrion injected some calm. 

“A man who crowned himself King.”

“But has no desire to be so again, and in your service,” Tyrion pushed. 

“Hmmm,” Daenerys’ eyes left the conversation as she looked out of the pyramid towards the city. “We’ll talk later. I want to sail soon. Do I need the Redwyne fleet? To leave?”

“Yes, we really do.”

“Fine. We leave the moment they arrive and restock. The longer I spend here, the more likely I die in some squalid way and never achieve my destiny.”

With that she swept out of the room. 

“Do you think she…” Tyrion started to ask a question. “Nevermind. I’m going to get drunk and try to make Missandei and Greyworm uncomfortable.”

“A productive afternoon.”

“Your productive afternoons may lose you your head old friend, now where are those two crazy kids? By the wine cellar I hope. Don’t roll your eyes so loudly.”

* * *

-Ro-bb- 

“Theon fuckin’ Greyjoy!” He raged around his cabin. He had been pacing back and forth over a small patch for a good two minutes. Which doesn’t sound that long, but count 120 seconds. Now. Stop reading and do that now.

“Robb?”

He snapped his neck over to the bed and saw Sira was sitting with her knees to her chest, hugging them tightly, she was rocking slightly.

“What’s wrong?” He asked hurriedly. His anger at Theon fuckin’ Greyjoy disappearing immediately. Replaced by concern. 

“Don’t like it.”

“What?”

“Anger. Angry men, scare me,” she shivered as he placed a hand on her shoulder. 

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright, just, phew,” she blew her hair out of her eyes but it just fell back to where it was. Robb tried not to laugh as she scowled at her own fringe trying blow and whip her head to the side to move it. “Hmm,” she made a derisive noise towards her own hair. “Anyway, nevermind, I’m alright… You shouldn’t kill him by the way.”

“Theon?”

“Sure,” she shrugged nonchalantly, as if it were the first time she had heard her name. “It’s a bad idea.”

“He deserves it.”

“As someone who has been killed I would think you'd be more careful with taking life,” Sira said quietly looking ahead. “Look, I know you’re a killer,” she started slowly, glancing to meet his eye for only a half second before looking dead ahead again. “How many?”

“I’ve killed?” Robb shifted uncomfortably next to her. She still shuffled up into the crook of his shoulder to nuzzle close, that was comforting in his uncomfortable state. “A lot.”

“More than fifty?”

“More than that,” Robb agreed. “It’s hard to get blood on your hands without dirtying your soul.”

“I don’t want to think about it, I suppose in the same way you don’t want to think about what I did before.”

“True… The thing is Theon… He - well you know I’ve gone over and over it for a good two minutes.”

“It was more like fifteen.”

“No it wasn’t, two minutes is longer than - look nevermind, I’m sorry for getting angry,” Robb conceded. “Knees.”

“Knees?”

“Knees,” Robb agreed grabbing her knees and rolling her backwards in a human ball. 

She tittered. “So you’re not gonna kill him right?” She crawled around on her front and started poking him. “Right? Robb? Right Robb, Robb Right?”

“You’ve distracted yourself, I’ve never seen anyone do that before,” Robb smirked at her, holding back a laugh, “I won’t kill him.”

“Because I convinced you,” Sira nodded convincingly making him unable to hold back the laugh this time. 

“How? I made my own mind up; because it would be reckless and I’d be executed and if I was executed then why bother survivi- sorry am I boring you?” He asked as she yawned widely. She nodded. “It’s because you convinced me,” he gave up.

“As I suspected!” She clicked her fingers together as if she had just discovered some fantastic new invention again making Robb break and laugh. 

“Are you sure you weren’t dropped on your head as a child?”

“How would I know that?” Sira had him there. “You’re stupid,” she added with the broadest, goofiest grin possible. “a-Ha!” She cooed as Robb missed her knees this time, “ahhh,” she cried out as he just tipped her over. “Are we fucking or not? It’s been hours.”

***

“Huh.”

“What is it?” Sira asked as Robb read over the letter that had been sent from the Great Pyramid to his cabin in the harbour. His cabin that was luckily untouched by the Slaver ships. “What is it? Huh? What? Robb, Robb, Roooobb, what is it, huh?”

“My bastard brother has sorta reclaimed Winterfell,” he spoke quietly processing the information. He had lost the castle so long ago now. It no longer felt like his. Well it wasn’t. It was still Ramsay Bolton’s. Then after an assault… If there was an assault. Robb had no idea what his brother was like in the command of an army. He just knew what he would do and that wasn’t really a thought he wanted. He didn’t want to think of Winterfell he had so much connection to the place but was unable to do anything proactive form where he was to help.

“That’s sorta good?” Sira asked/stated, also unsure what her reaction was meant to be. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes?” 

“Yes? Or yes! Or yes.”

“Shut up,” Robb scoffed with mock derision. “I don’t know.”

“Helpful.”

“I mean, I don’t know what to do with the information, that is my castle, the seat of my House which I am still the head of whether the other members know that or not. Yet it doesn’t feel like mine. It has been so long… We marched at night to get the jump on the Lannisters… So I didn’t even have that one last look moment,” Robb said slowly.

“One look last moment? Is a common enough thing to have a saying?”

“One look last?”

“Shut up. Or don’t and continue,” she smiled resting her head in the cradle of her hands rocking side to side ever so slightly. 

“I haven’t reclaimed it. I haven’t won the battle but it is mine, I can’t really let Jon have it. Maybe Sansa but then when she marries - I suppose there is precedent for women marrying men and insisting they take on the house name to prevent extinction.”

“Look Robb,” Sira paused for a long moment. “No one cares…” As he went to reply she cut him off. “No one. I mean I really like you and I can’t even feign - waaarghhhh,” Sira screeched out as Robb scooped her up in her arms and walked her away from the bed and tossed her as far as he could onto the mattress. “Weeee - that was fun.”

“It wasn’t - dammit.”

“Lord you’re getting all moody again.”

“I have to go to the fuckin’ pyramid again, I hate this. The Game of Thrones,” he elaborated when she cocked an eyebrow. 

“That little fella seems alright, be friends with him!” Sira suggested as if were all so simple. 

“You’re too happy,” Robb told her as he pulled Blackfyre onto his hip and glanced at his reflection. “Why?”

“People been callin’ me mi’lady,” she shrugged with a grin.

“How shallow.” 

“Buuuut fuuuun!” She yelled out the door as Robb left. 

Wow he had really fallen hard hadn’t he. If he was ready to be honest with himself he loved her already, more than he had Talisa but Robb was not ready to be honest with himself. Not even close. 

***

“Everyone leave!” Daenerys Stormborn yelled. She really was a joy. Calm one moment, furious the next. “Not you two!” She pointed at Robb, because of course she did and to Tyrion. Oh yes, Sira told him to make friends with him, perhaps after they were berated by their Queen Robb could see if Tyrion wanted to come over and play with his toys. 

“Good news eh Stark?”

“Winterfell?” Robb asked Tyrion who nodded. “It isn’t mine.”

“Actually it is,” the Queen spoke, the anger gone completely. “Whether you won it back or not it is still yours. Your bastard brother may have been at the head of the army but you are head of your House.”

“If he inspired the men of the Vale to help him… Well I didn’t do that,” Robb spoke carefully. “I’m not sure those who fought for Jon will be too pleased with a dead man who got a generation of Northerners killed in the South turning up after the struggle to take the rewards.”

“No. However, you would still be the technical head of the House,” Tyrion spoke before the Queen could presumably shout at either of them. Perhaps both. “Anyway you are correct. However we may have a solution.”

“The Tyrells offer you the hand of Lady Margaery, apparently a smart, beautiful woman,” Daenerys told him. A smart, beautiful woman; whose hand in marriage usually came with a preemptive death for the groom. “This would make you acting Lord of the Reach.”

“Right, I, erm, I have a partner,” Robb said in reply. “Can’t I just, you know, win your battles? Isn’t that enough. It’s pretty tricky to win them, I would imagine, I’ve never had an issue but others really seem to struggle. Your grace.” Good job there, making yourself sound like the cockiest cock who ever cocked his way around a cocky thing - and to answer any follow up questions; no I don’t know what I’m talking about. I mean he doesn’t.

“Apparently not,” the Queen said sternly. “You have knelt before me Stark, you call me your Queen, so you have to listen to me.”

“You want me to marry Margaery Tyrell? Your grace.”

“Want and necessity are two seperate things,” Daenerys brow furrowed as she gave Robb a glance he couldn’t read. “We also do not know how the Northerners will react when they find out their ‘King,’ is alive.” Hoo hoo she made the word King sound as toxic as something really… Toxic? Poetry. 

“Wait,” Robb shook his head. “Do you want me to be your Warden in the North or your Paramount in the Trident?” 

“I don’t know,” Daenerys told him, she looked young for a moment. “However your insolence is always noted Stark.”

“Why are you trusting me? Your grace.”

“For some reason I really don’t think you want power anymore, I need to watch out for those who want it and to take it from me. I mean I’m potentially offering you two Kingdoms, including the richest one and you don’t want it,” she told him. Looking at him in the eye as she spoke. Her voice kind for once. “You seem to be flat out incapable of lying. So yes I am coming to trust you Stark. Even though I don’t personally like you. At all.”

“Thanks, I think,” Robb suppressed a laugh but still smiled she returned it. Huh. That was odd. “I suppose if I was going to betray you and reclaim that bronze crown I would probably try to seem more trustworthy… Your grace,” he added hurriedly. 

“And not attack my allies the moment they arrive here,” she asked. 

“That would be next level subterfuge. I can’t even come across as likable it appears, so if I start kissing your arse then I might up be for the hangman’s noose,” Robb said with a smirk before panic gripped him as the Queen gave him a supercilious look of derision. “Or not your erm, I’ve never thought about - Tyrion help me?”

“Will you marry the Tyrell girl?” Tyrion took control. Thank you ‘the adult in the room.’ “You can keep your mistress. In all honesty Highgarden has little offer for the war effort more for what comes after and a peaceful long term future. 

“Sure I guess,” Robb shrugged. The invasion seemed so far away that he was willing to promise something that was so nebulous.

“Good. The Redwyne navy will be here within the next couple weeks. We give them five days to restock and for us to prepare then they sail,” Tyrion told Robb. 

“They sail?”

“We sail sooner,” Daenerys took up where Tyrion left off. “The Golden Company will use their fleet and land at as close to the Reach as they can. You’ll relieve Highgarden. The Unsullied will land with me and my dragons at Dragonstone. The Iron fleet will meet with the Martells and offer to ferry their army North. Then the Redwyne fleet will bring the Dothraki as reinforcements.”

“It’s all planned out then,” Robb shook his head, he felt anxious. He thought there was more time. 

“You alright?” Tyrion asked.

“Give me two minutes.”

“You can take longer,” Tyrion tried to laugh.

“That’s actually quite a long time you know.”

* * *

-Con-ning-ToN-

“We sail soon.”

“I know son, it’s almost time, all our patience, all our time waiting, it is about to pay off,” Jon told his fake son. Aegon grinned at him. 

“The Tyrells are loyal, they won’t want all these foreign invaders ruling them,” Aegon was lightly bouncing from one foot to the other. “With the Tyrells. With the Martells.”

“You will take the throne.”

“Should we tell Stark?” Aegon asked. “I feel he would be an ally. He dislikes that bitch pretender.”

“He dislikes us too.”

“He dislikes you Jon, you have been rude to him,” Aegon’s joy was hard to put a scuff on. “He seems alright. I’ll even let him keep Blackfyre until we find Ice is it? Yes Ice and give it back to him.”

“It’s that girl he cares for more than anything,” Jon rolled his eyes at the cavalry captain’s weakness. 

“Some whore? Perfect. He wants someone with no power and no desire for it. We should tell him. Let him make that whore the lady of Winterfell or whatever nonsense we need to get him onside. Besides he is too stupid to lie, if we make an offer and he refuses we kill him too.” 

“Fine. Maybe. Let us deal with Strickland first.”

“I thought he was dealt with?” Aegon spun on his heel to look at his fake father. Who smiled reassuringly. 

“Oh yes, it has, it just hasn’t occurred yet. However he is ‘celebrating’ with Franklyn Flowers, when Harry drinks himself moronic once again to toast our return to Westeros he will find himself trying to swim, in dark water, in his golden armour,” Jon grabbed Aegon’s forearm and squeezed it reassuringly. “This so called Queen believes Harry a fool, a correct assessment, so him toppling overboard,” Jon just held up his palms and smiled. 

“I can’t wait.”

“You’ll have to wait a little longer. When we are on the seas the Unsullied are weak, we can strand the Dothraki in Essos. It is the perfect time to strike,” Jon told Aegon. “This is it. All we have waited for. We will kill this girl. Take her newly found Westerosi allies as our army and you will ascend the throne.”


End file.
